Whispers
by exb756
Summary: MINECRAFT has changed. Long after the events of the Great Disaster, men plot against each other and great nations come into conflict, in one big virtual reality. Whispers tell of a shadowy power rising in distant lands...but one can never trust the whispers. For they corrupt those who listen too eagerly...Sequel to Gone. Rated T for violence, blood, language, and suggestive themes.
1. The World as We Know It

**Well.**

**That was a nice break from writing alone. I mean, sure, Broken Realities is a thing. But we've got an entire team working on that!**

**So, without (too much) further ado, I introduce to you my next solo project: **_**Whispers**_**, the "indirect" sequel to **_**Gone**_**. I'll say this now—it doesn't take place EXACTLY in **_**Gone**_**'**_**s**_** world—rather, it takes place after many years have passed, in that used to be the lands of Langsford Peak and all of those other cities.**

**So please enjoy! This will be a different spin on a world many of you might be familiar with…I would be happy to hear any comments or critique!**

VVVVV

Four years had passed. The world had changed. So it goes.

Carl Manneh stared out of the window of his Mojang office, his eyes fixated on a distant jet plane coming in low for a landing at Stockholm's airport. Something about the jet drew his attention away from the task at hand. He shook his head, forgot the plane, and returned to work.

Four years had passed since Earth was nearly wiped out of existence. _MINECRAFT _was now open to the public; much of its history was kept under lock and key, the Disaster and civil war long forgotten by those who would wish to forget it.

The opening of _MINECRAFT _was like unlocking a safe that had been closed up for years on end. The dust had been blown off; inside, many decades had passed. Order was restored, a new nation was founded, and balance had returned to the world. Carl knew his history; he realized that the world had become corrupted, falling into decay after the glory days of the great city-state of Trinira and the rise of Minecraftia. It had come full circle now, back to the way it should be.

But things had changed. Many years had passed inside the simulation. The old lands, the continent affected by the Disaster, had changed greatly. Carl had decided to open it up to the world; sort of like a Minecraft server, but virtual reality. Players would strap themselves into a remote mechanism (which Carl himself had developed), and be connected to the simulation's mainframe, effectively putting their own consciousness inside the real simulation. It was virtual reality, essentially; thousands of players, separated by hundreds of miles, all breathing, living and working in a digital dimension apart from themselves. Sheer brilliance—they could log out whenever they pleased, and death was only a temporary inconvenience.

But such a massive leap in gaming and virtual reality was not without its problems. The machines that brought people into the simulation were expensive; price tags exceeded thousands of dollars for each machine, and maintenance for technology so advanced was expensive. And so pirated, cheaper models found their way onto the market; they cost only several hundred dollars apiece, but the risks were great. Once you went in, there was no going out; the reason the pricy models were so expensive was because they could bring the user _back _from the simulation. The cheap models could not do so; once you were in, you were a permanent resident of _MINECRAFT_. And death was final; no respawns.

Yet millions chose to risk their lives for a cheap price; after all, it was a fresh start in a separate, digital world. For around five-hundred dollars, you could wipe the slate clean, find yourself in a world with new people, new laws, new creatures, new life. Nothing to return to, no looking back; millions saw _MINECRAFT _not as a game, but as an alternative to their everyday sufferings—a fresh start. Few of them realized how dangerous it was.

And thus the future had begun. Carl knew how _MINECRAFT _technology could affect the rest of the world; digital simulations, fusion reactors, advanced medical science, neurological science…so much could be done.

And he stared wistfully out at the plane as it disappeared, wondering what was happening in _MINECRAFT _right now. After all, it was just one giant server; with just one difference.

It was real.

VVVVV

The man had the information he needed; the problem was, the police wanted it too.

Or it wasn't just the police now; SWAT teams were coming in. He had seen them, armed with rifles and SMGs, entering the main foyer of the bank and taking out two of the man's friends. The group had retreated back into the bank safe, locking the door behind them. All of Terra Nova's police force would be after them now.

"Police, we can deal with," a heavyset robber gasped, hoarse and exhausted. "SWAT, there's no way."

"They won't be able to get in here, though," a skinny teen said, clutching his rifle tightly.

"They will eventually. That door's strong, but enough C4 will take it right off its' hinges," warned the last man, an armored and masked robber. "We're running on borrowed time."

"And we've essentially cornered ourselves," the heavyset robber said. "Great job, Tomas."

"It wasn't my idea, you fatass!" the teen barked. "You're the one who lost his balls when SWAT showed up—"

"You haven't even fired a shot! Who are you to judge me?"

"Maybe I'll put a couple rounds in you, eh Eli? All of that fat should absorb _some _of the bull—"

"Enough, both of you!" the last man barked. He was the most calm of them all; he was wearing nothing but casual clothes, and carried nothing but a small coin and a cell phone. "This was the way it was supposed to happen."

"Supposed to…what the hell do you mean, _supposed to_? You mean this was all planned?" the heavyset man demanded, leaning up against the safe wall.

"From minute one," the reply came. "We were supposed to corner ourselves in here. There's no way out."

"You trapped us in here, you sonofa—"

The masked robber whipped his 9mm pistol out and shot only once, sending the Eli flying sideways against a stack of crates; he had only taken a few steps before being gunned down. The confused teenager, Tomas, was next; before he could even do as much as move a finger, he was shot down too, falling lopsided against a row of deposit safes.

"Too bad you had to go like that, Eli," the unarmed robber said, standing over the burly man's deceased body. "A bit messy…but necessary."

"Sorry, Dom," the masked man replied. "I had my orders."

"And I had mine."

The masked robber never saw the bullet coming. Dom whipped out his hidden pistol and aimed right where the armor was weakest, right above his friend's neck. Blood spurted out and the other man fell to the ground, his rifle clattering away. He clutched at his throat, gasping and choking on his own blood. The robber named Dom casually walked over to his friend, and stooped over him, waving the pistol menacingly.

"Orders are orders, pal. You were with me to the end…thanks for doing your part."

Another gunshot took care of the last loose end. Well, not the last…

The lone robber opened up the cellphone and dialed the number furiously. After several tense seconds of ringing, it finally connected.

"Sir?"

"Do you have it?"

"I have the coin…what should I do—"

"Just read me the coordinates. I'll take care of the rest."

The robber, sweating vigorously, read the coordinates off of the tiny coin. They were printed on the backside of the copper piece, barely legible. But they seemed to match the description.

"Good, good…that will be very useful. Is everyone else taken care of?"

"Yes, sir," Dom replied, glancing down at the bloodied bodies. "Is it my time now?"

"No, Dom, I still have need of you. Listen to me very carefully…"

VVVVV

Matthew Cook was your ordinary, run-of-the-mill seventeen-year old. He hated his parents, he never did his homework, he was obsessed with video games, and if there were girls nearby, he would do anything to get their attention.

Like jump out of a moving vehicle.

He thought it would've been funny; simply open the door, step out, roll over a bit, and then stand up like nothing happened. A publicity stunt; after all, the brunette Elisha loved guys who took risks, and Japanese exchange student Sora was always entertained by his antics.

But things didn't go quite as planned. And now here he was, bruised and bandaged, being berated by his parents for pretty much everything.

"Such a stupid idea, jumping out of a moving bus. What the hell were you thinking, idiot?"

His father had never been friendly; Matt hated his father, and his father hated Matt. So life went; usually it amounted to nothing, but sometimes their arguments evolved into physical fights. His mother, a socialite from Singapore, was obsessed with Matt getting good grades, and when he failed to do so she was hell-on-Earth. He lived in a picturesque suburb of Seattle, nestled close to the Cascade foothills; he would be happy there, if not for his family.

"I thought it would be cool…"

"You looked like a complete clown," his father argued. "Not that it's going to damage your image or anything like that. You've already made one for yourself…"

Matt ignored his father droning on and on about his bad traits.

"You never do what you're told, you never do your homework, you go out late at night with friends, you chase every girl you see, you disobey your mother, you've stolen from other people…what's it going to take, Matthew?"

"To do what?"

"To _improve _you, dumb shit!" his father roared. "You're a sorry excuse for a son—I'm not going to let you go into life like this. If you don't get honors grades this semester, I'm taking away pretty much every damn thing you own."

That was the final straw for Matt.

"You can't do that."

"I sure as hell can," his dad scoffed, downing the rest of his beer and slamming the empty bottle back on the dinner table. The two sat apart, one at each end. "Who's going to stop me? You? The failure that you are?"

"Don't…call me…a _failure_…"

"It's what you are. You know what? Why should I try to improve you? You're a lost cause," his dad admitted.

"Why do you even try anymore, then?"

"I've tried up until this point. There's no use anymore…you're dead to me now, for all intents and purposes. I've given up hope. So has your mother…she's putting all her faith into your sister now, did you know that?"

Matt was now furious; not only was he being abandoned, but he was being abandoned in favor of his _sister_. She was a straight-A student, popular in school, and had a happy, healthy relationship. Something Matt couldn't have.

It wasn't because he _wanted _to be like that; he just was. It was something only another teenager would understand; his genetics drove him to be a wild, untamable soul. It was the way he was born; there was nothing that could force him to be like his perfect sister.

"Why her? She's—"

"Perfect, in a sense. Not trash like you," his dad scoffed. "Maybe you should just get rid of yourself. Make a little more space in this world."

His father got up from the table, forcing the chair back into its position. In anger, Matt remembered how the past week had gone so far.

He got a B+ on a calculus test, an achievement for him. His teacher had praised his work, which far surpassed his previous grades. But his mother had no words for him.

"Your sister got an A+ on the same test. Why can't you be more like her?"

Matt had spent his entire Saturday at a local community center, serving meals to hungry and homeless. When he came home, he was greeted by his father.

"You lousy piece of trash—going out on the town, doing whatever you want! I suppose you think it's fine to just abandon your father when he needs your help…"

He had beaten down a schoolyard bully, protecting one of his female classmates and earning the respect of most of his peers by standing up to an aggressor. His reward was less than desirable.

"Always getting into fights, you are," his father berated him. "Why can't you just behave like normal kids? You're an embarrassment to your family."

Matt reflected everything he had tried to do right; but nothing seemed to appease his family. It was always his sister…she was always the model student, the Good Samaritan, the shining star of her school. He was appreciated for anything; sure, he wasn't as respectable as her. But nobody had anything good to say about him…it was like he was invisible.

Matt wanted nothing more than to abandon the life he held; it had no promise for him, no allure. His family hated him, his friends were shallow, there was nothing in his future. His father had grimly predicted that he would grow up to work at McDonald's; his mother had no intent of sending him to college, and had decided to spend the money on his sister.

It was time to leave, find somewhere where he was appreciated. Matt had six-hundred dollars to his name; not much, but enough to go to one place. One place where he would be new, a stranger…a fresh start in a world where people of all walks were welcome. He had seen it in a local advertisement; the allure was too much to handle. He would go there, and become a new person.

_MINECRAFT_. The very word rolled off the tip of the tongue…the promise of adventure, fresh love, a new home, and a new life.

His parents would notice, but they probably wouldn't care if he left. As they went to bed, Matt grabbed all of the cash he had stowed under his mattress, and slid out of the house quietly, locking the front door behind him as he left. It would be a long journey; Matt left his old life behind him, and ventured out into the cold Seattle air, starting on a path that would take him farther than he could ever imagine.

VVVVV

One could say that the feud between American Brad Thompson and Englishman Bryan Kenly began over a pet slime that they had argued over in their private Minecraft server a long time ago. The small argument grew so large that the two became fierce enemies; they would grief one another on servers both private and public, and spew vitriol every second they were on. So when _MINECRAFT _opened, naturally they took their feud there.

Both Kenly and Thompson brought thousands to their sides; Kenly, an ex-lawyer, was charismatic and had a way with words. He would seduce his way into the hearts of some, and haggle his way into others. But many flocked to his side; on the other hand, Thompson, a well-known Youtuber, had a legion of devoted fans to call upon who would fight against his hated enemy. Many of them were rich enough to afford the fancier versions of the simulation plugin, the ones that allowed you to respawn; most of Kenly's troops did not have that option. But Kenly had organization on his side; Thompson's force resembled more of a disorganized rabble rather than a standing army. Both ruled their own feudal kingdoms centered on a ruined town, lands of rolling pastures and vast farms controlled from keeps and castles. Neither was satisfied with what they had; each thought that the other must be destroyed.

And thus, for what must have been the hundredth time, Kenly and Thompson squared off against each other on the Purgative Plains, outside the ruins of the old city of Delphos. The metropolis had been abandoned one hundred and twenty years ago, when the Disaster occurred and the mass western exodus began. Now, it lay in ruins; legends spoke of the key to a great weapon lying within the ruins, but that preoccupied neither Kenly nor Thompson. They preoccupied each other.

The two armies stood apart on opposite sides of the plains, the forests of Connaughtsshire to the south and the stark, ruined skyscrapers of Delphos to the north. Thousands of men had died on these plains; many had respawned again. Others had met their maker upon these grassy fields.

Lord Kenly, mounted on horseback, stood at the fore of his chivalric knights, the spearhead of his proud army. As modern technology was forbidden in this giant "server", he had to make do with cold iron and heated steel; but that served him well enough. Thompson had to do the same.

Lord Thompson, on foot, stood upon a weathered, mossy rock that jutted sharply out of the plain. His force was a mixed bag; many were armed with nothing more than pitchforks and crude spears, peasants and townspeople who could not be relied upon to hold an army. They might overwhelm Kenly, yes; but they could not break him completely. Thompson had some men-at-arms and pikemen to call upon, as well as archers, but his forces were always outmatched in terms of armament.

As usual, Thompson started the battle by sending his troops in a massive mob, a swarm of mediocre peasants and soldiers armed with a range of equipment. The battles usually were like that; Thompson, lacking any sort of tactical intelligence, would send his troops forward, knowing that most of them would be back to fight another day. Kenly's strategy was also relatively simple; send the chivalric knights forward, smash Thompson's army to pieces, and fall back before his pikemen units could arrive. It had happened that way for a long time; decades, in fact. Nothing seemed to change.

But this time, something was wrong; different, you could say. Thompson's troops were spreading out, extending themselves. Normally, they would charge forward in one straight line. But this time, they formed a kind of envelope around the front of Kenly's formation, as if they were attempting to flank him but failing. Were they attempting to flank him? Something was wrong…

Bryan Kenly wasn't quick enough to realize his mistake; he had assumed that this would be the same battle over again, same parameters, same outcome. But therein lay the mistake; this was different. For from out of the southern forests and the northern ruins rushed thousands of hidden soldiers, motley recruits armed with very little. They weren't much in the way of soldiers, but it was their tactic that allowed them such success. Kenly had never seen it coming; his forces were now enveloped by the surprise attack. There was no glorious charge of knights, crushing through the enemy forces. Instead, there was a massive retreat as Kenly's army, now thoroughly panicked and in some cases dismayed, began to retreat or rout back towards the presumed safety of their feudal lands. Some escaped; those further back were able to retreat, back towards the Riverrun Bridge. But others were not so lucky.

The hammer came down, smashing in on the sides of Kenly's army. Men struggled against each other, fought, suffered and bled for their own reasons. A crush of steel, bronze, flesh, and bone that kicked up dust and blood and smoke, a mass of fighting men desperate to survive. Lord Kenly, in his own desperation, led his knights on a stampede through friend and foe, crushing many beneath the hooves' of his horsemen. Kenly men fought with great valor, but they were swarmed by the numbers of Thompson's horde. Within ten minutes, the Englishman's army had either fled the field or been destroyed, such was the force and the speed of the surprise attack.

Thompson himself studied the battlefield shortly afterwards, riding along past hills of corpses. The weapons scavenged from Kenly men would be invaluable; not only would his troops be armored and armed better, they would receive a huge morale boost from this sudden and crushing victory.

On the other side of the Delphos River, a horde of archers waited behind wooden walls and stakes. There would be no taking Kenly lands; Thompson may have won on open ground, but attacking those fortifications across a river would be nigh on suicide, and would throw away all that he had won on this day. Instead, he contented himself with the spoils he had won, and the knowledge that Bryan Kenly, the reputably invincible Englishman, had been humiliated on this day. Not only had he been defeated, but he fled dishonorably.

As Thompson strode along on his horse, watching as his men eagerly picked the battlefield clean, a runner came up to him, panting and struggling to breathe.

Whoever they were, they had something urgent to deliver; messengers ran a lot, but none were ever this exhausted. He had clearly been sprinting for quite some time.

"Courier? Do you have—"

"A package, my lord. From the sender…it is said to be of great importance. Urgent."

It had to be _seriously _urgent for a runner to be so out of breath; couriers paced themselves, going fast but keeping their breathing stable. This one appeared to be on the cusp of falling to the ground; he held his knees as they shook, stabilizing himself.

"Who was the sender?" Thompson asked, receiving the package from the courier's trembling hands.

"Can't…say his name, my lord. Privacy matters and all—"

Thompson unsheathed his blade and leveled it to the runner's bare throat.

"The name, courier."

"Read the package…if you want his name, you'll find it," the runner urged, his eyes fixated on the shining steel of the blade. Thompson, equal parts dissatisfied yet curious, withdrew the weapon and sheathed it once more. What he was about to read would change the war, and more.

VVVVV

"There's no turning back, Matt. You know that."

"I am aware of what I'm doing. I've got nothing to turn back _to_, Dan."

Matt was preparing to jump to his new home; in the dead of night, he had fled his house, and taken the long way to a suburb of Seattle, a quiet neighborhood with several _MINECRAFT _hubs, most of them upper-class. The only one that was lower-class, the ones that stuck you in for life, was owned by Dan, a middle-aged lowlife who had netted himself a decent suburban home through the drug trade, and now through _MINECRAFT_. As Matt stepped into the hub, he saw at least two dozen pods, each containing a live human being.

"How do they—"

"Breathe? Eat? Sleep? Shit? They don't, man. They're living corpses, I tell you," Dan answered, sitting at his control monitor. "Once you go in, you're as good as dead to this world. That's why I wanted you to reconsider it before you plunged in headlong."

"I told you, I've got nothing to live for—the only thing I have to live for is coming here."

Dan was taken aback momentarily, but saw the hidden meaning a moment later.

"A second person? Well, then…are they paying for themselves?"

"No," Matt answered. "I'll pay for both of us—"

"It's fine, not a problem. So long as I get the money, you and I are square," Dan replied, opening up two of the empty pods. There were only a few left empty.

"There aren't many left," Matt observed. "Four—"

"I need new space. I've already converted my dining room and basement into hubs. I plan on installing more, soon…"

He trailed off as the basement door opened again, and the second arrival finally showed up.

"Well, well…your company arrives. Time to get down to business, I suppose. Has she made her final decision?"

Sora stepped down into the dim basement, holding only her purse. She had brought no other belongings; foolish to bring belongings in the first place, anyway. They wouldn't go with you to the other side; the only physical being transferred to the simulation would be you, and you alone.

"Sora…I didn't think you'd show up—"

"I've been thinking about it for a long time," the twinkling-eyed girl spoke, setting her purse aside. "It's always been out of reach…but I finally have enough money."

Matt rushed to her side, holding out his own money. "No, no, I'll pay for yours—"

"I already have my money, Matt," she smiled, holding out her own wad of bills. "I've saved it for a long time…never thought I would use it for something like this."

"That's a lot more money that I've got," Matt noticed, staring at the cash she carried. It was at least eight hundred dollars, possibly more.

"She bought the more advanced version. Costs more, but…"

Matt's heart skipped a beat. He realized what that meant; Sora would be able to leave as she willed—she would have to be in a safe place, away from danger, but she could leave. Matt on the other hand was stuck; he was leaving his world behind, to face a brave new one. If he died, that would be it. No more.

"You didn't buy the advanced version, Matt?" Sora asked, painfully aware of his conundrum now.

"I…didn't have the money—"

"It's certainly more expensive," the operator mused, "but I'd say it's worth it. Sorry, Matt."

"S'ok…I wouldn't want to come back, anyway. I came here to _run away _from my home…I don't have anything to go back to."

Matt was dimly aware that the two of them were studying him with looks of pity and remorse; many who went into _MINECRAFT _never came out. Those that were able to respawn and leave were lucky, and rich.

At that moment, to break the awkward and unusual silence, one of the pods along the far wall opened up, and its owner rose up out of his steel coffin, gasping for breath desperately. His limbs quavered like jelly, and he took several moments to regain his composure. He had been up for at least thirty seconds before he noticed everyone else staring at him.

"Er…Carl? What the hell happened?"

"Cursed Kenly bastards…again, with all of this dreck—"

"Spit it out," Dan ordered, his cheeks flushed. "Was it—"

"We won, yes. Surprise, isn't it? Brad Thompson's glorious army of diehard peasants winning a battle. But one of those Kenly crossbowmen nailed me in the head while they were retreating. A potshot, but a damn good one…and man, that hurt…"

"Go back to the sim, Carl," Dan spat, shaking his head vigorously. "You talk too much."

Apparently Carl was one of the richer men, able to respawn after death. Muttering to himself about "blue-blooded British bastards", he fell back down into the simulator as the cover slid back over him, and once more he returned to his fantasy world.

"Bloody…every week he dies, in some godforsaken battle. You don't want to get yourself caught up in the internal politics of the sim," Dan warned. "It's a quagmire. Especially if you're stepping into it just now…"

"I've heard a few things about it," Sora said, holding her purse rather awkwardly. "Like…well, just rumors…"

"Aye, rumors come and go. I don't hear much about anything but the bloody Thompson-Kenly feud. It's been going on for a several months now…and every damn day, he wakes and has to tell me _every _gory detail."

Dan spat empathically at the simulator where the man was now asleep once more, delving deep into the digital world.

"_I speared this damned knight and slew this blue-blooded lordling, but some half-assed levy peasant gutted me like a hog_," Dan growled in a passable imitation of the man named Carl. "Every day…anyway, I suppose that's enough of that. Just don't get involved with those kinds of things. Anyways, you two have different pods. Matt, yours is with the rest of the 'common folk', as I like to call them," he pointed out.

A long row of simulators ran down the wall, and several of them were empty. They looked cheaper; less equipment attached to them, fewer screens and monitors, and they were painted a dull gray as opposed to the opaque chrome of the more expensive models.

"Do I just…lay down in it?" Matt asked, curiously patting the cold steel frame of one of the machines.

"Sit down, relax, and I'll do the rest. Just make sure you've made your peace with this world—because you ain't coming back."

With a sudden pang, Matt began to feel an aching loneliness; he had been born into this world, and grew up in it. He had played the game Minecraft before, a long time ago, but that had been years ago. This would be something entirely different; almost like a mock Earth, a new world, a new start. There would be little that he would miss…

"I've got no peace to make," he replied sadly. "I'm ready to go."

"You don't sound ready," Dan smirked. "A lot of people have gone in, and been regretful about it…I can tell."

"I've made my decision. Do your job…please," Matt added, wincing.

"Alright, alright…just reminding you, no turning back. And as for your young lady here…"

Sora had bought the more advanced package; she was in a smaller group of simulators, the more advanced-looking ones.

"How will this work, exactly?" Sora asked, sliding her hand over the sheeny steel of the simulator.

"You enter and exit the simulator at your own free will," Dan explained. It sounded like this was the thousandth time he had gone over such a subject. "Whenever you will, you can leave and come back. Now, granted, I'd rather you do seal yourself in at night, and wake at dawn—makes it easier for me if you need to do something here in the real world. But you can come and go."

"What happens if I die, then?" Sora asked nervously.

"Depends on how you die. Pain, however much you would feel, and then you wake up here again. You can reenter whenever you'd like. Much more efficient than the cheaper models…but again, the cheaper models are cheaper. _Way _more."

Matt grimaced silently on his side, ignored by the other two. He reminded himself that this was his choice to make; unlike Sora, whose family was rather wealthy, he had been unable to afford the more advanced models. He was going to enter this new world for good, come hell, high water, or both.

"Well, I'm going in. Enough talk," Matt decided, slipping into the machine. Inside, one could hear hardly anything; the shield slipped over his head, and the only light that entered the interior came from a small section of Plexiglas over his head.

"Just relax, and let me do the work," Dan called from outside. He thumped on the glass, and then disappeared.

Everything was so deathly quiet inside that pod; it was like sitting in the grave, waiting for time to end. Sensory deprivation was often the quickest way to madness, it had been said; Matt wouldn't be going insane, but he was aching to know what was going on outside. He knew _nothing _about the process of entering _MINECRAFT_; what would happen when he went in?

The pod opened up again, and Dan secured Matt's head back against the flat surface of the inside of the pod. When he was secured, small electrodes were attached to several places on his head.

"Electrodes…cliché, yes, but necessary. Your consciousness is leaving this world forever, kid. I _sincerely _hope you made your peace."

"I already told you—"

But the lid of the pod was slipped back over once more, and darkness and silence filled the void. Matt waited for pain, shock, or some sort of physical feeling, but all that happened was a brief flash of white light, a small pinch, and the pod was gone.

Matt stood on a grassy knoll, under a deep blue sky. The sun had only recently risen, gleaming brightly above these plains. He could feel the breeze bringing a sweet smell from somewhere nearby; he looked down, gazing upon a small village nestled by a grove of trees.

So this was _MINECRAFT_. The game as it should've been…so realistic, it was like an entirely new Earth.

Matt was in a new home. He began his journey down the hillock, wondering where he might end up in this world. The village would only be his first destination.

VVVVV

The pendant was far from home; wherever home might be for it.

An artifact of an older time, it flowed down the river and eventually stopped by a small village, washing up on the rocky shore of the stream.

It was hanging on a silver chain, and the pendant was a bluish-green glass orb, a bit smaller than a human thumbnail.

A fisherman chanced to stoop down and pick it up from the waters, studying it curiously.

Something was inscribed on the pendant, something barely legible. The fisherman, illiterate, could not read what it said, but he had no idea he held the key to something far greater than anyone in the world possessed.

For the numbers inscribed into the pendant were a key.

_8131996_.


	2. Deceitful Repose

**Hello internet! I have decided to take up the greeting style of our lovely fellow scribe Mellifluousness, who has influenced me to an astonishing degree. If you haven't read E2HU, go do that now. Do yourself a favor!**

**REVIEW ANSWERS:**

**EclipseWolf64: Yep, that string of numbers will be quite useful. I will not forget them! Thanks!**

**HPE24: D'awwww, of course! You're welcome! Fangirl away, and I shall await the next update for Phantom of the Aether with bated breath. I'm eager for it :3**

**TheShadowSong: Leon will be back, but he'll be…different. You shall see.**

**BlackPanther101: I can't reveal anything. But thanks!**

**And now, for a special announcement—the fantastic, ever-amazing HarryPotterEncyclopedia24 is making a cover for this story. Similar to the one she made for Gone, only possibly MORE amazing. Because she's just a talented drawer :D**

**I will await this cover—it will be done in another week or so!**

**And now, I present to you the next chapter of Whispers! Enjoy!**

**VVVVV**

The assembly of men around the table had never been very joyous; their congress had many matters pressing on them. War, disease, raiders, famine, feuds…issues plagued the land of Minecraftia, the ancestral home of many a brave hero and adventurer. And this assembly was led by one man who seemed more capable of ruling a kingdom, or a nation, than any other.

Lord Elias Kastner sat at the head of his assembly of councilors, lords and knights, who were bickering about the latest issue to beset the land of Minecraftia, or the simulation of _MINECRAFT_.

Kastner had been born into poverty, the son of a poor Queens butcher. Although he hadn't been college educated, and his job was less than satisfactory, he was able to pay for a simulator and enter _MINECRAFT_, like many souls who coveted a better life. But Lord Kastner was dissimilar; he had proven himself, both in combat and in leadership. Through many long years and many trying trials, he had become the de facto leader of the old province known as Connaughtsshire, once populated by Minecrafters before they moved out west during the "Great Disaster".

The news had come by courier early in the morning, before Lord Kastner had even dressed himself. When he received the missive, and had read it thoroughly, he had assembled all of the councilmen and bid them to enter the council chamber immediately.

The one-two punch was not easy to stomach. The first piece of news that came was the defeat of Lord Bryan Kenly out by Delphos—something that had not happened in over two hundred Minecraftian years, roughly one year up on Earth. The shock and awe spread like wildfire throughout the councilmen when they received the announcement. Lord Kenly's professional army was incredibly powerful; he and Thompson kept each other in check, fighting their own little war while the rest of Minecraftia lived on without them. But if one of them had been defeated, or even dealt a severe blow, the whole balance of power might be changed completely…

The second punch was even worse than the first. News came from the Crossing that a spat had turned into a small skirmish between townies of two opposite sides—one group of the province of Connaughtsshire, and the other group of the province of Reinhardt. Reinhardt was technically part of Minecraftia, but Lord Stanislaus Antar had long trumpeted his distinction from the lands under Lord Kastner's power. The two had been at odds for a long time; this new skirmish between people from their provinces would flare tempers ever higher.

"My Lord Kastner, begging your pardon…but shall we begin?"

One of the council members, one of the eldest, asked to begin the meeting. Kastner, still feeling sleep beckoning to him, nodded his assent.

"Yes, we can begin…all of you are aware of the news, correct?"

A series of nods and murmurs from the group.

"Well, go on then. What do we all make of it?"

Silence from the group, until one of the older councilors stood up to voice his opinion.

"Grave tidings, I fear, my Lord—"

"It doesn't take a fool to see that," came a response from across the table. "Kenly, beaten and retreating behind from a band of unruly levies? Our border is threatened, slavers and Harvesters run wild in the Southrun, the tribals grow restless…and we haven't received any news from Swampheart in eight weeks. Grave tidings understate it, I think."

"And I fear that you _overstate _it, Lord Kleiner," Kastner spoke roughly from his seat at the front of the long council chamber. "You would have us think that the world is ending."

A few of the councilmen smirked, and one or two laughed aloud, but the air in the room was still and hot. Everyone realized that bad news had come upon them; this was no laughing matter.

"It's certainly not _good _news—"

"No, but it's not dreadful, either," Kastner replied lazily, taking deep gulps from a goblet of pumpkin spice juice. "Problems need to be dealt with practically."

"Please, tell us what this 'practical' solution is, my lord," the hot-headed councilor asked, gritting his teeth.

"Lord Kleiner, that foul attitude of yours will lose you your head one of these days," Kastner smirked, setting his goblet on the table. He had become used to the lack of modern technology in Minecraftia; it was forbidden, so the entire land had essentially become a medieval kingdom. He had long since accepted the fact; goblets were nothing new, and neither was the lack of air conditioning. "Believe me; we will worry when we need to."

"Why not worry now, my lord? I gave you good reasons—we are facing a multitude of issues—"

"I am aware of this, _Lord Kleiner_," Kastner grimaced, becoming frustrated with his impetuous councilor. "How many years have you been in this land?"

"Eighteen, my lord. And I don't see—"

"You've been here eighteen. And I have been here for thirty. My experiences outrank yours, and trust me, it is _not _the time to worry yet. We will be concerned with that later."

Lord Kleiner, disgusted, sat back down in his chair, his eyes shooting daggers as he waited for Kastner to speak once more.

"We will deal with these problems individually. No doubt they will become worse even if we try to intervene."

Kastner paused a moment; every man in the room gave his attention to the main chair. Even the guards at the back watched him, waiting to hear his judgment. Lord Kastner's judgment was unparalleled in the realm.

"As for Thompson and Kenly, we play the waiting game."

"We…wait, my lord?" one of the older councilmen, Lord Diyas, asked incredulously. Diyas had been born and raised inside of _MINECRAFT_; he had never seen Earth, unlike Kastner.

"We wait, like we always have. Kenly is not defeated; perhaps set back, momentarily, but he will be on the field again within a month. We will ignore them once more."

"And what of the Southrun? Slavers, raiders, Harvesters running amok in the lands, pillaging and burning—"

"As they always have," Kastner spoke calmly. "I will dispatch Lord Kurnias down south with an additional thousand men to spread around the Southrun. It's not enough, but…"

Kastner trailed off, deep in thought. He couldn't spare many men; most of his soldiers and bannermen would not answer unless there was a war for certain, and many of the available guard forces were stationed along the Connaught River, opposite of Reinhardt territory.

"And what of Swampheart?"

That news was what disturbed Kastner the most. The great city-state was situated close to the Northern Sea, where none had ever gone past. Swampheart was built upon the ruins of an ancient city of the same name; many said it was a haunted city, populated by the spirits of those who dwelled within it a long time ago. But it wasn't ghosts that bothered Kastner; no, it was the lack of messages.

Swampheart's couriers were the best in the world; they had slipped through wild lands, through deserts full of packs of creepers and giant spiders, through the Accursed Jungles and Kenly territory. They had never failed before; so why weren't their messages coming through? Even when Bryan Kenly announced his intention to destroy the courier network, they still slipped through. Not a single message in eight weeks…disturbing indeed.

"I don't know what to make…of Swampheart," Kastner conceded.

"Well if you don't know, then who does?" Kleiner argued, and the room erupted into a fierce debate. Few men actually took Kleiner's side; most of them were arguing that there was almost nothing to be done. Regular couriers wouldn't have been able to survive the long, arduous journey to Swampheart; it could only be Swampheart couriers, and no one else. Lord Kastner did not like sitting aside at times like this; but the problem boggled his mind. Finally, he decided what needed to be done.

"This council is adjourned. Out…all of you," Kastner declared, his voice deathly.

"My lord…we are not—"

"_This council is adjourned_. Out…ALL OF YOU!"

Kastner always had the final word. The council members excused themselves sheepishly, stumbling over one another to leave the chamber. The Lord sat at his chair, finishing the pumpkin juice and wiping sweat from his large brow.

He would deal with Swampheart later. Now, there was pressing business to take care of—that of Lord Antar and his antagonistic knights.

It was time to raise the banners. If Stanislaus Antar wanted a war, he would get it soon enough.

VVVVV

The sentries up on the mud-brick wall watched Matt closely as he walked cautiously down the gravel path, his shoes crunching on the crushed rock with every step he took. The grass here grew wild and tall; untamed, uncut, it reached for the heavens, some patches nearly three feet tall. In some places it grew over the walkway.

There was no sign for the town; either it had no name, or the name was not stated immediately as you entered. However, a banner flew above the crude gateway: what looked like a golden bundle of flax or wheat on a field of pale green, with a border of darker green. The single banner flew high above the main entrance, affixed to a watchtower by a long wooden pole.

"Not another step, kid. You'll just stop right there, alright?"

One of the guards, clad in green cape and leather armor, called down to Matt from the battlements ten feet above. Matt stopped in his tracks, waiting as the heavy oak gates opened up and two soldiers moved outside, and began to frisk Matt for weapons. When they were satisfied, they motioned him on through the gate and followed closely behind.

"Are you a new arrival?" the chief guardsman, who had been the first to call out, asked as he descended from the battlements and down to the square below.

"I'm sorry?"

"New to the world? You do look pretty green," the guardsman commented, and a few of his brothers chuckled.

"I could say the same about you," Matt replied, pointing to the green cloak billowing out behind the captain.

"Aye, we wear the colors of Lord Partridge, Lord and Protector of the Birchwood. You mark yourself as a newbie—you're still wearing Earth clothes."

Again, the soldiers surrounding the small spectacle chuckled again, smirking and whispering about the new kid.

"Well, you seem harmless enough. We have to frisk for weapons nowadays—there's talk of marauders and strange folk entering the Southrun. We can't take risks."

"Am I welcome here?"

"We'd be glad to have an extra hand. You'll have work to do, as part of the village, but we're always accepting new people." The captain allowed him to pass through, into the main village.

"Who can I see?" Matt asked, glancing backwards as the group of sentries.

"Everyone asks that question, kid. If I were you, I'd go see the town's quartermaster. If you've got questions, he's probably got answers."

The guardsman waved Matt off, striking up for the walls once more. Matt turned around and entered the main plaza of the village.

The small hamlet had about twenty houses, plus a variety of other buildings, and was surrounded by the mud-brick wall with towers at several defensible locations. Roads of gravel, all intersecting geometrically at 90-degree angles, cut between houses and structures, and at the center sat a massive plaza of smooth stone. A large building, taller and wider than all of the others, was the centerpiece of this plaza, surrounded by other, smaller structures. Matt assumed that it was the center of the city.

He directed himself towards the large building, weaving through a light crowd as he walked. He had already marked himself as a foreigner; his clothes, his walk, his uncertainty about the village all marked him as a newbie.

He dodged the crowd and slipped inside of the large wooden structure. Almost immediately, he felt at home again; Sora was standing at one of the counters, facing an older man with graying beard and thinning hair.

"Oh…you made it here!" she exclaimed happily as Matt trudged up behind her, looking around nervously.

"Yeah…and I'm not sure—"

"I don't know much about it either. But I was directed here to the quartermaster…did you get through the guards alright?" Sora asked, a hint of concern in her voice. She pitched her long black hair over her shoulder, turning away from the busy quartermaster.

"They frisked me down and asked a couple of questions, but that was about it," Matt replied.

"Same here," Sora said, turning back around. "They simply conducted me towards the quartermaster's office and instructed me to register with him. Did they tell you the same?"

"Essentially," Matt trailed off, as Sora returned her attention to the elderly man at the counter. She signed a few papers, received an identification stamp, and was directed to a room at the back of the town hall.

"Excuse me, I'm with her—"

"You might be, but I need to register you first," the hoary man replied, coughing harshly as he slipped some papers out of a drawer and handed them to Matt. "Everyone does. It's what I'm here for."

The documents he had distributed to Matt were relatively simple questionnaires; his previous education and occupation, simple age and body questions, affiliations, etc. He filled them out rather quickly with a small lead pencil, provided by the quartermaster.

"Now, you are allowed to live within these walls without swearing an oath of fealty to Lord Partridge, but you won't become a citizen until—"

"Lord Partridge? The…regent?" Matt asked, uncertain.

"Of these lands, yes," the aged man answered. "There is no _true _regent of the entire world. Lord Partridge is our benefactor and leader, even though his keep is deep within the Birchwood. He watches over us with a heedful hand."

The phrase sounded like it had been rehearsed a thousand times before, to appease whoever this benefactor and leader was. Matt would have none of it; the whole feudal system disinterested him. He only wanted a roof, a bed, and a warm meal. That was all he was asking for.

"Now, as I was saying…you cannot be a citizen until you swear fealty. But if you choose not to, we will be happy to provide you with living space and food. You will have to work for us, however."

"Seems fair enough," Matt grumbled as he signed a few more papers admitting him into the village. "By the way, what's the name of this…er…place again?"

"It does not bear a name yet," the old man answered. "But you can simply call it…_home_."

It was done now. He had found his niche, his place of living. After being processed and finishing his papers, he found his way to a small wooden shack on the far southern edge of town, close to the gate. To his delight, Sora was living there as well—two people for a small, cozy hovel.

"It's quite wonderful, really…I expected it to be less comfortable," Sora wondered after Matt had stepped inside. The interior, though small, was quite well furnished; two beds, each at different sides of the room, a workstation and furnace, storage chests, and a map hung up in a frame on the wall. It wasn't home sweet home—not yet—but Matt had a strong feeling he would become accommodated soon enough.

"It's not that big…"

"It doesn't need to be big, Matt," Sora rebuked kindly. "It's perfect for the two of us…just enough space."

_If you say so. I'm not sure I want to sleep in the same room as you_…

To be fair, Sora was an attractive young woman, and Matt would like nothing more than to spend most of the day with her. But sleeping in the same room, yet not in the same bed would feel awkward, he was certain.

"I wish we had a clock, though," Matt sighed, staring out the single west-facing window at the sun as it began to sink low into the sky, casting a reddish pallor across the rooftops and gravel streets of the village.

"We can do without it for now," Sora said cheerfully as she undressed on the other side of the room. Matt, desiring to avoid any sort of awkward situation, kept his gaze stuck on the sun as it slowly sank lower and lower, until it had plunged below the wall of the village.

By that time, Sora was fast asleep in her own bed, the red wool covers drawn all the way up to her chin. Matt decided it was high time to get his own sleep; it dawned on him that day one Earth was night in the server, and vice versa. It struck him as strange, but then again, many things did that. He pondered much as he fell asleep, stowed away comfortably beneath layers of covers as the chill of the night crept into the small shack.

VVVVV

Matt woke up early the next morning, rising as the sun began to peek over the eastern horizon. He couldn't see it, but by the auburn light that it cast on the streets, he assumed that it was dawn.

Sora was still fast asleep, so Matt dressed in his old clothes, stumbled out of the door and proceeded to the main hall once more, shivering against the nip of daybreak.

Surprisingly, the old quartermaster was awake at such an hour, busying himself with various bundles of paperwork and muttering in a low voice.

"I'm here for the—"

"Job? Yes, well…you're an early riser, I must say. Most of our regular workers…aren't even out at their posts yet. You seem quiet eager to get to work," the archaic man spoke gently.

"You could say that…"

Matt was uninterested in useless babble at this hour. He wanted a good job, one that paid well, something to provide sustenance and even more for his little house. In time, perhaps, he could expand it, or buy a bigger one with more furniture.

_In time_.

"You've been assigned to the farms, sir…I've got your forms right here. You're to report to Roger Oakley at no later than eight in the morning. Seeing as its six-thirty, I don't think you'll have a problem with being to work on time…"

"Is it alright if I arrived early?" Matt asked, concerned momentarily.

"By all means, boy…he might even let you off earlier, in that case…"

Without another word, Matt departed for his job. The fields were outside of the village, about six or seven acres of wheat and potato crops sprawling across the green hillsides, tended by a few village people here and there. A river ran past the village, running lazily on its course and dividing into several small runs at multiple points. Alongside the river lay the village, with its clay pits dug deep into the mud on the bank. A large forest spread off to the west, mostly birch trees—giving it the name "Birchwood". Quite original.

Roger Oakley, a thick-chested man with a piggish face and large brow, seemed more than happy to receive a worker so early.

"The sun's barely risen, and already my field hands are arriving. You're new, so I'll give you the run-down of what you've got to do around here," the man introduced himself, shaking hands briefly with Matt. He led him to an empty field, one that had already been tilled and prepared for harvest.

"In Minecraft, crops grow pretty fast. We usually get harvests in four weeks after planting—which means we get a lot of food. Of course, we have quite a bit of people, so we always need to provide. Your job is quite simple—seed this patch of the farm."

He pointed Matt to a small shack down by the river.

"Seeds are stored in there. Take as many as you need, we always have a plentiful supply. This might take a while, so bide your time and make sure every seed gets under the earth. I'll come back to check on you periodically."

Matt obliged, following a dirt path down to the river and taking a bag of seeds from the shack. As he returned to the field, he began to sow, tossing wheat seeds out into the fresh earth and ensuring that each one was at least partially covered by dirt.

As he continued with his dull task, he lost track of time. By the time Roger returned, the sun was already high in the sky, and workers were tending to the other fields, slashing wheat or seeding the earth or tending to rows of potatoes.

"Looks good so far. Everything seems to be in order…well, keep up the good work. You should be done with this patch by noon," Roger commented, before leaving.

The field was pretty large; Matt had only done about half of it, taking his time in ensuring that everything was perfect. The seeds he had thrown out he had organized in neat rows, and ensured that the others would be organized the same way.

He stopped briefly to study his surroundings; in the middle of arranging the seeds, he stood up and gazed around at the world surrounding him. To the east and north, rolling green fields and hillocks spreading out to the horizon. To the south, great fields of bluegrass and sawgrass that spread out as far as the eye could see. And to the west, the Birchwood swallowed the earth, spreading out farther and hiding what lay beneath it.

It happened while he was studying the birch trees, wondering what secrets could be concealed within that dark forest. Something caught Matt's eye, a tiny glimpse of movement that lasted only a fraction of a very short second. It was gone before he could even see it again; something on the edge of the forest, something had moved briefly…

He shook it off, ignoring it. It could've been a trick of the light, certainly…but he felt ill after that. After finishing his sowing, he returned to Roger and asked to be excused.

"A bit of heat illness, probably. It's certainly sweltering out here," the field boss muttered, wiping sweat from his massive brow. "You did well today. Get yourself some rest, and if you aren't feeling well tomorrow, have one of the other boys let me know."

Matt was home by noon, having eaten a quick lunch of fresh bread, potato soup and some assorted greens. All that afternoon, as he lay in bed, feeling sick, he wondered about what he saw in those woods. Things like that never distressed him so much; he had a premonition that something hostile lurked in those woods, something watching him.

When Sora returned home, he had already roused himself from bed to prepare dinner with what he had left in the chest. Half a loaf of bread and the ingredients for a salad remained, and he began to prepare these on the crafting table when she entered.

"You're home early. Did you not work the entire day?" Sora asked, depositing her items in her own chest.

"No, I left a bit early…just felt a little ill was all," Matt explained. Sora expressed her condolences and fixed her own supper, igniting some coal in their furnace and preparing a small bowl of fish soup with some bread.

"They assigned me to the architect's station today. I don't know why, but I'm responsible for maintenance of the village, apparently," Sora explained as Matt chewed glumly on his slices of bread, sitting on the bedside. "Master Cullman will teach me how to congeal mud and fill cracks in the walls tomorrow, and he said that he'll assign me to one of the builders to teach me physics. It sounds interesting, definitely," Sora rambled on as the soup began to steam on the furnace.

"Better than my job. _Farming_," Matt scoffed as the sun began to dip low in the western horizon.

"Well, hey, at least you get to grow our food. I think you'll do a good job," Sora appeased him, as she began to eat her dinner. As they had no tables or chairs as of yet, they had to sit on the beds and eat on the chests.

"I could've gotten one that was less boring. Hell, even woodsman would've been better—"

He had forgotten about the figure he had seen earlier—the tiny flash of movement, inside the forest, just on the boundary…

"Matt? Something wrong?"

Sora had momentarily ceased eating her dinner and was watching him cautiously. He realized that he was staring out the window, towards the tall birch trees rising up over the village wall.

"I've always wondered what lies within that forest." He tried to make it sound as innocent and ponderous as possible, but Sora still seemed suspicious. She dropped the topic anyway.

"At least we weren't assigned to the clay pits. I could smell it from inside the village…all that sewage water and dank clay…"

"Yeah. Consider yourself lucky…you've got an actual job," Matt laughed nervously. Sora seemed to think it was funny; she laughed as well.

"Don't get all miffed over your assignment. You might have some good times…tilling the earth, sowing crops…"

He could tell she was joking, and he wanted to laugh, but he had no mind for humor at that moment. By the time they had finished eating, the sun was nearly down. When dusk turned to night, the entire village, save the sentries, put to bed—it was common knowledge that the night was dark and full of dangers. Best to be tucked tightly into bed, safe inside your house.

For when night falls, another, darker world comes to life.

VVVVV

"What you brought me, Dom, is not what I wanted."

Dom the mercenary stood before his boss, holding his hands tightly behind his back. He was waiting nervously for his employer to pore over the information he had retrieved; so far, it was not looking good.

"Then I have failed you—"

"No, on the contrary, I failed myself. I thought that there would be more detail than this…"

"It's…just a bunch of numbers, sir," Dom spoke, trying to maintain a neutral tone. "Coordinates…on a map—"

"Yes, they point us somewhere. But it does us little good…these coordinates are in server territory."

His employer spat, and tossed the coin violently onto his desk.

"Damn them all…damn them all…"

"I did what I was supposed to, sir—"

"You are not at fault Dom," the well-dressed employer spoke, leaning against the wall and folding his arms unhappily. "I fault myself, for assuming that such information would be in plain sight. No, they tease me…they give me the coordinates, but not the passcode…"

Dom was not following what his boss was talking about, but he nodded his assent anyway, trying to stay neutral still.

"What you retrieved for me is valuable, yes, but it is not the complete solution. Are you familiar with Project Ares, Dom?"

The mercenary shook his head.

"Many people aren't. It wasn't public, certainly…the government hid a lot of secrets before the Disaster."

"Is that what you're looking for? Something called…Project Ares?"

"That's the name. What is it, I'm not entirely sure…records are sketchy, indeed. They describe something requiring a _huge _amount of power, but of immense potential and capability. But for what, I do not know."

"Sounds…dangerous," Dom coughed, wary of his words. One single misstep and he could end up the same as him comrades…considered "a problem", requiring "a solution"…

"Well, that's a good assumption," his boss chuckled mildly. "Dangerous, unstable…who knows? What we do know is that it's there. At those coordinates, roughly."

"That would put them…in the old city of Delphos," Dom mused, turning over the coin to read the set of numbers.

"Indeed, it would."

"So…what is it that you require of me, then?" Dom asked hesitantly. His employer smiled, withdrawing the coin and stowing it away in the compact black safe he had underneath his desk, built into the office building's floor.

"Me? Require something of you?"

The words made Dom nervous; he clenched his teeth, and felt sweat pouring down his forehead. Was he about to be disposed of? So many of his employer's men had been disposable before…had his turn come?

"Er…yes sir?"

"No, no, Dom. I do not require more of you, yet. Now we play the game," his boss laughed, facing the skyline of Terra Nova as he stared out of the large window that formed the western wall of the office room.

"The game, sir?"

"The waiting game. We wait, and see what happens next."


	3. Safe Within the Fire's Light

**Greetings internet! This is my new callsign, because why not? Either that, or I'll assume the personality of Cave Johnson. One of the two.**

**Anyway, I'll cut straight to the point tonight because I have nothing to say. Review answers, the new chapter!**

**REVIEW ANSWERS:**

**HPE24: Yes, that was a reference :3**

**The paradise won't last long, as this chapter's end points out. You'll just have to wait and see what happens. And I shall wait for the cover c:**

**EclipseWolf: That string of numbers…you shall see :D**

**LexiLopezi: I do believe we played together on PA before. I just remember dying a lot…**

**TheShadowSong: EVERYONE wants to be a builder. Who wants to be a boring old farmer? Either be a builder, or a miner. That would be my dream job.**

**MechanixAngel: I believe this is the first review I've received from you in a LONG time. Your comments are certainly welcome, and remind me to review Ignition Point SOON.**

**And Sora is not really based off of HPE. It's accidental if she is…**

**TerrarianCreeper: Go ahead and PM me about…writer's block. I'll do what I can o.O**

**And yes, Leon returns. Soon**

**VVVVV**

The courier had failed in his duty. There was no other way to say it; he had failed his city, his office, and his people.

He knelt in the mud of the Accursed Jungle—cursing the jungle, his captors, the humidity, his aching body, and a hundred other things. But he had failed in his delivery—for that, he deserved death.

The man in the strange mask stood before him, gripping a long bastard sword and holding it to the side. Around him stood the tall figures; all black, their eyes a ghastly purple, their claws long and menacing, at least eight feet tall and making not a single sound, not even breathing.

The masked man held the scroll in hand, reading it and laughing to himself. When he was done, he tossed the paper into the mud.

"You are not the first to attempt this, have comfort in that," the masked man spoke, with a voice that did not seem quite human—not alien, but yet not that of a man. "Many of your brothers have fallen in this same task."

"You cannot break us," the courier hissed, summoning all of his courage to try and stay strong. The masked man only laughed a scathing snicker.

"Such brave words for one man. Are you scared, courier?"

"Runners of Swampheart…do not feel fear, or pain…they do not fail in their job…through desert and jungle, ice and rain…"

"You are not the first to recite your code before death," the masked man interrupted, stomping on the scroll and forcing it deeper into the primordial mud of the dark, haunted jungle. "You are scared, you feel pain, and you know that death is upon you…do you have any last words before you die, courier?" He raised the blade above his head, preparing to bring it down in one fell blow.

"You'll never take the city. As long as Voidmouth is ours…you cannot win."

"Touching last words," the blade wielding man mocked. "I'll be certain to remember that."

The steel sang, and then there was silence.

VVVVV

The first thing Matt noticed was Roger late to the fields. It was just the first thing.

He woke up before Sora, right as dawn broke over the eastern horizon. A warm light began to illuminate the darkened room, spreading over the wooden floorboards and walls through the single glass pane facing east.

Matt woke with the sunlight; he had no alarm clock, he hadn't used one for months, and he always woke up when the sun peered over the horizon. As the first rays reached into the sky, he dressed quickly, ate a quick breakfast of bread, and then was out the door before his roommate even began to stir.

Minecraft mornings were chilly; not cold, necessarily, just a bit cool. Matt shivered slightly as he walked the gravel streets alone, passing underneath mud walls with no sentries atop them. The fields were almost completely empty; however, the river was teeming with fisherman who fished at dawn, when their catch would be most active.

Matt had no idea what to do; in his state of loneliness, he wandered the fields of wheat and potatoes, examining each crop carefully. As the sun rose, men came out to tend their fields and harvest and plant, but Roger did not arrive. Usually he would be there before his employees were, making sure that they all had their orders and were ready for their day's duties.

It was not until 10 AM, when the sun was high in the sky and a warm wind blew through the fields, that Roger finally arrived. He looked weary, large bags drooping beneath his eyes and his veins standing out quite clearly on his temples. He gave the appearance of a man who had not been able to find sleep.

"Sorry about all of that…just a bit of business with the town's keeper, that's all," Roger explained hastily when he arrived to find several of his field hands, already sweating from their early morning labor, gathered around in a circle near the town's eastern gate, waiting for their employer to arrive.

"You don't look too good, Roger," one of the senior farmers commented, and another mentioned that he "didn't seem to get much sleep last night."

"I just…didn't sleep well last night, is all. Some business with the keeper last night, and this morning, too," he puffed hastily. "Anyways, get back to work. Nothing to be overly concerned about."

Matt was not too sure about that; several of the field hands looked suspicious, hiding their eyes under wide-brimmed straw hats and returning to their fields, shuffling their feet lazily. One of the workers whom Matt walked a distance with spoke up about it.

"I don't know what he's been up to," he mentioned offhandedly before he left to tend his own patch of onions, the only one for the village.

"Oakley?"

"He went to bed at a proper time, everyone does in this village. I noticed the same thing with the Guard Captain and the keeper…they all seemed so sleep-deprived, like they were up all night."

Matt had thought nothing of it, until he heard a clamor down from the town at around noontime—the second thing. He was already heading back for a short lunch—a bowl of fish stew was calling to him—when he heard shouts and garbled voices from the square of the village. He hurried on back, as other farmers left their fields for the main gate.

Matt arrived in time to see what all of the commotion was about. A crowd of people had gathered in the main square, outside of the keeper's building, where the quartermaster worked. Three men were gathered around a lifeless body in the center, one that was splayed out on the gravel in what appeared to be quite an awkward position. The man's leather jerkin was bloody and ripped open; as the jerkin was torn off, a gruesome sight greeted the townsfolk.

The dead hunter's heart had been ripped from his chest, clean and proper; the veins and arteries had been cut through cleanly, and a nice hole had formed in his chest cavity where the organ had once been. There was no sign of the man's heart; he was clearly dead, his chest covered in crusty, dried blood. He had been a hunter; his longbow had been lain nearby, forgotten.

"Harvesters," was the word muttered by several people, whispers full of fear and apprehension. Matt heard it spoken several times; he had no idea what that word meant, but the only emotion he felt now was fear, fear of something that would tear a man's heart out and take it—just his heart.

"That's the work of a Harvester, can't be anything else," one of the gruff fishermen spoke up, and his voice was echoed by several of his peers as the crowd in front of the keeper's building parted and the village keeper, followed by the quartermaster and several attendants, struggled through the mass of people to reach the corpse deposited in the center. The three men who were attending to the heartless body backed carefully away as the keeper approached it. One of the men bent down close to him and whispered something inaudible.

"Tollden, take your men and skirt the woods, take all of them," the keeper spoke aloud after several seconds of bending over. The captain of the guard, the man named Tollden, yelled several orders and the guardsmen followed him, dispersing from the crowd. Only a few of them wore the insignia of Lord Partridge; the others wore plain clothes and leather armor, with no distinctive markings.

"The rest of you, return to work. Go," the keeper ordered, and the grumbling crowd slowly dissipated, urged along by several of the remaining guardsmen. The quartermaster ordered the body brought into the keeper's building, where a temporary morgue lived—he would be kept there until burial.

There was no peace after that; as Matt returned to his own plot of land, he noticed that most of the farmers, including Roger himself, were gathered in a group at the top of one of the hills outside of town, the one that overlooked the Birchwood and the river.

"There's no doubt about it. That's Harvester work there, I won't bend the truth," one of the farmhands spoke, wiping sweat from his broad, tanned brow.

"I haven't heard talk of them in five years," another said, glancing out nervously at the Birchwood. As Roger noticed me approaching, he signaled for me to join the conversation.

"Cook, this is quite a serious matter. You won't understand completely, since this is only your second day here. But I should think you grasp the grim reality of this situation," Roger spoke, as the men cleared way to allow me into the circle.

"Someone has been murdered, yes," I said, and was met with several guffaws and snickers.

"Pfft, he's green…boy, it's not murder. He's been _harvested_."

"That's why they call them the Harvesters. I wouldn't put it past them to have ripped his heart out alive…poor Jonny," the eldest farmhand said.

"They're brigands and bandits, Matt," Roger explained, trying to share his knowledge with me. "But they're worse than that…they've developed a fetish for all sorts of Nether-cursed nastiness. They harvest organs for no reason, just because they're that sadistic."

"Insane, every single one of them," another farmer spat, stomping the dirt to prove his point. "No sane human being would rip out another person's organs on a whim."

"Bloody murderers, they are. They don't even bother to steal anything, just burn and kill. If you're lucky, they cut you down," one of the younger ones steamed.

"If you're unlucky…well, they kill in a variety of ways. Best not to speak of them so soon after lunch. I'd rather keep my food down," Roger announced, and then dispersed the small group with a wave of his hand. "Enough about those damn sadists. If they show their faces, we'll give them a fight to remember."

Roger did not sound very convincing; already Matt was apprehensive about shadows lurking in the Birchwood. Was what he saw yesterday connected to today's events?

Matt could not help but wonder more about the Harvesters—they had been explained in pretty clean detail, but there was so much he did not know about them. He had only heard about the gore and murder—where did they come from? Were they even _human_?

"They're human—thieves and brigands, but with a savage side. Some say they lost their sanity long ago, and their new members are driven to insanity before they're allowed to be inducted," one of the older and friendlier farmhands answered Matt's query while he was hard at work tilling a field for a fresh crop of wheat.

"I wouldn't call that human," Matt scoffed, wondering who would be driven to such despair to join a group like the Harvesters. "Who would want to sign up for _that _kind of outfit…?"

"Most don't sign up, kid," the farmer laughed, hacking the red clay apart with a stone hoe that was showing its age. "They're taken in and driven to madness by some insane design. I don't know how it happens, and I'd rather not know. What I _do _grasp is that they're fiendish, and I'd rather not come face to face with one again."

"You've seen them before?"

"Five years ago. They were human, alright; a couple dozen of them attacked at night, but we were able to throw them back. Under those plain masks, they're men and women—insane, perhaps, but human all the same."

"How'd you—"

"I'll speak no more about them. You should attend to your work, before Roger gets angry. And besides, we'll need to get our quotas full today—tomorrow's the Spring Festival."

"Nobody told me this…"

"They should've. It's not that big of a deal, but you won't be working tomorrow, so Roger wants all of your work done today. Fill your quota, no matter how long it takes. It'll be worth it, trust me," the farmer assured, before sending Matt off with a wave of his hand.

The third event seemed quite minor at first, until Matt realized what had happened.

The sun was already setting; most of the field hands had left their posts, checking in before returning to the village. Matt was one of the half dozen left tending his plot, watering each seed and checking for growth, when down the dirt road came several men on horseback, bearing the banners of Lord Partridge.

The riders, in their chainmail and leather armor, rode past without paying any attention to the farmhands, who were drawn to their presence as they rode into town. A large cloud of dust plumed behind the mounts, as their riders led them into the village.

Naturally, Matt was drawn towards the source of commotion; it was almost the end of his shift, anyway, and Roger had already checked out and gone off for supper. When he arrived at the central plaza, the riders had already dismounted, handed their horses to stable boys, and begun conversing with the keeper, who seemed rather exhausted.

"The entire village, you say? How can this be, though?"

"All of Greenrun was torched, sir," one of the riders in a mail coif helm spoke, holding a lance bearing Lord Partridge's birch tree banner up in the air. "Every house, every shack, every field. Put to flame, along with most of the populace."

"You can't be serious…can you?" the keeper asked, his face a portrait of sheer horror. From the small crowd gathered around the plaza, murmurs and hushed whispers could be heard, inaudible—but one knew what they were saying.

"They did it deliberately. Those that they hadn't already killed or had been caught—burned alive, yes. Some people escaped, of course—"

"How many?" the keeper interrupted, sounding more exasperated with each passing second.

"I never took count, sir," the rider spoke, irritated. "About fifty or sixty, I dunno…what matters is, the village is toasted. And it was definitely Harvesters. There's no doubt."

"How many temporaries were there?" one of the village people asked.

"Two or three, they were counted amongst the survivors. The rest were permanents, as to be expected."

"How could this have happened…"

The keeper bowed his head, shuddering.

"Lord Partridge wishes for you to stay safe tonight. Post extra guards, have sentries watching the walls at all times. He sent us to warn every village this side of the Birchwood to do the same," the rider announced.

"Isn't there anything else his lordship can _possibly_do?" the keeper of the village asked, pleading for some measure of assistance.

"Lord Partridge has no other troops to spare, keeper," the rider replied. "Your own men will do—just stay behind the walls, and keep your people safe. I bid you farewell."

The keeper attempted to speak, but the head of the riders bid his men to follow him, and in a cloud of dust they dashed out the gate, forcing villagers out of their way as they ran off.

There was silence for a few moments after the messengers departed, before one of the woodsmen spoke up.

"How will this affect the festival tomorrow?"

"Bugger that, there might not be a tomorrow," one of the older villagers spat, and his feelings were echoed by several others.

"Every single guardsman will be on duty tonight. Double the sentry rounds, post every man we have up on the walls and every reserve member ready for combat. Light every torch and candle if you must," the keeper ordered, turning back to return to his office.

Matt returned home with a heavy head and a churning stomach. The reports that the riders had brought back did nothing to soothe his concerns about the "Harvesters" that lurked out in the night; by the time he got back to his shack, the sun had disappeared and the glowing sphere of the moon had already risen high into the sky.

Sora was nervous as well, although she was always more light-hearted about such situations; she had a fire going in her own furnace, cooking a leg of chicken on a spit and preparing a small salad with it.

"You don't look very enthusiastic. What happened?" Sora noticed the minute he entered.

He relayed the entire story to her—what the riders said, the keeper's reaction, and all of the gory details about the village attack.

"And this happened…just last night? Why haven't we heard about this yet?" Sora asked, incredulous.

"News spreads slowly, I figured. The riders only brought it in today…the keeper said he'd post all guards on the wall tonight—"

"That doesn't really make me feel safer," Sora said. "Not after all of that business at the other village…look what good it did them."

"Maybe our guards are more competent? If anything happens, they'll sound the alarm before we're under attack—don't worry."

But despite his own reassurances, Matt could not help but toss and turn that night, as the moon rose and the only light in town came from the dozens of torches and lamps that were lit on the order of the keeper. As Sora slept soundly in her own bed, Matt wondered when, if ever, the alarm bell would sound, wondering every minute if an attack would come, wondering if the sentries would even detect it…

Finally, he fell asleep, after waiting and worrying away half of the night. But dawn rose crisp and clear in the sky, and there was no sign of any trouble whatsoever. Matt awoke to light streaming through the eastern window, falling down onto his covers. He woke up to another normal day; even after breakfast, even after getting dressed and preparing to go out to the fields for a few hours before the festival, he felt apprehensive—as if somewhere out in the forest, someone was waiting to strike.

VVVVV

Matt's spirits lifted, however, when he ceased working at noon and went back home to rest before the evening's festival. He saw, out on the green plain to the south, a mass of tents going up in the grass, supervised by at least half of the guardsmen. Multicolored, purple and orange and red, they sprung up like spring flowers on the carpet of greenery, with multitudinous human forms milling about between them. Long wooden tables were being moved from the woodcutter's camps, barrels of salt pork, beef, wine and ale were being transported down, and carts full of favors and other supplies were pulled out to the festival site.

Matt described the scene to Sora later, who seemed very excited to be relieved of the previous night's troubles.

"I'm assuming that this happens every year," she stated once he finished describing the scene he saw. "I mean…it sounds _so _extravagant."

"It certainly looks like a lot, more than enough provide for one-hundred something people…I guess we'll be eating well tonight, eh?"

Deep down, Matt still felt off about the events of the two days beforehand; things like that you couldn't simply shake with an elaborate, fancy Harvest Festival. The ale might make you forget your worries for a short amount of time, but it couldn't shroud the past forever. It was with a happy heart, but some concern that he departed with Sora for the festival grounds outside of the walls just as the sun began to go down.

The plains outside were well lit; daises had been hauled out of storage and placed along the dirt path that led down to the tent grounds, as well as around the entire festival area. Torches were all lit, some of the guardsmen carried their own lights, and lanterns were hung in every tent.

_Light means safety…we perceive it to be safety, warmth, a place where no evil can touch us. _

That was the idea, at least. Sure the guardsmen were watching over the entire affair, and keeping an eye on the walls. But, light didn't simply make you safe…

"Are we just coming to eat and drink?" Sora asked as they walked on down to the grounds.

"I'm sorry?"

"There doesn't seem to be entertainment of any sort…no music, no sports, nothing…"

"I dunno. You could ask someone, if it really bothers you," Matt replied, his attention drawn to the rousing party ahead.

Sora split off, searching for one of the girls she had met at the bakery, wishing to chat with her. That left Matt alone to try to find his way through the crowd of people; there were less than two hundred villagers down at the festival, but it was still quite crowded with partygoers and guardsmen.

Matt took a bowl of mushroom stew from one of the serving tables and tried to find a place to sit under one of the tents. Sora would find him easily enough—in a hooded sweatshirt and faded pair of jeans he stood out amongst the tabards and peasant clothing of the villagers—but until she returned, he had no choice but to find somewhere to sit, eat, and hopefully pick up a conversation with one of the others.

It was then, as he sat down at one of the long wooden tables and prepared to feast on his stew, that he noticed the interesting stranger sitting, all alone, staring at the open sky full of stars. Unlike the peasants and guardsmen surrounding him, he wore oiled chainmail and a tabard with an insignia on it, that of a cross inside of a circle—a crosshatch, of sorts. Whoever he was, he did not come from the village—and he caught Matt's attention almost immediately.

"You're not from around here, are you?" Matt asked the stranger, as a plate of hors d'oeuvres passed by.

"Neither are you, by the looks of it," the outsider replied. "Hoodie, Wrangler jeans, hair combed over…you come straight from Earth, boy?"

"Two days ago, in fact. You look like you've been here for years," Matt retorted.

"As a matter of fact, I was _born _here, kid. Thirty-three years ago…so for all intents and purposes, you're the stranger."

"I didn't mean to be offensive…you just seemed—"

"Out of place? Yes, you could say that…you could also say that I have no place, no home to come back to. I suppose you could say my home is the road, in a manner of speaking…"

Matt drew closer, away from the throng of animated villagers and closer to the chainmail-armored stranger.

"Who _are _you?"

"Me? I'm nobody special, really," the armored man chuckled, sipping ale from a glass mug. "A caravaneer, if you really must know."

"Like…a caravan master?"

"More like a guard," he snorted, downing the rest of his drink in one massive gulp. His chiseled features were reminiscent of that of a statue, worn and damaged by constant exposure to danger and the elements. His mail, though finely oiled, bore scratches and dents, and his tabard was dull, its color sapped long ago. The insignia on it was fading. "I was always assigned to be one of the hired blades for caravans going from New Connaught down to Moon's Eye. Wasn't the easiest job, but it paid well."

"Do you still do caravan services?" Matt asked, now thoroughly intrigued.

"Aye. That's why I'm here, drowning myself in ale and waiting for dawn to come. Master Evans decided to stay the night at this little redneck squatter's town—just because of free food and drink," the guard snorted again, turning to his mug before realizing he was out of alcohol.

"Damn, I need a refill…at least it's all free of charge."

"I think you've had quite enough to drink," Matt warned, wondering why he was still conversing with this man.

"I'm not drunk yet, no," the guard laughed, a long, drawn out snort of laughter. "When I'm drunk, I'm quiet…I'm all for chatter right now. I'm just thirsty."

Despite his grizzled features and spiny attitude, Matt had some kind of liking for this guy—he seemed weathered, experienced, and relatively friendly once he had a few drinks. Or so he assumed. He decided to bring up a topic that he had been thinking about all day—seeing as Sora had not yet returned from gossiping with other girls of her age, he decided to continue to be entertained with this sellsword.

"What do you know about the Harvesters?"

The caravan guard was, quite ironically, caught off guard by this sudden question. He nearly dropped his mug, and his eyes lit up when he heard that word.

"Damn it, boy, don't you know when to be quiet?" he hissed under his breath, as several carousing fishermen passed, each with their own mug of ale. "Never mention—"

"I'm sorry—"

"Don't mention those psychotic marauders in public. You'll attract unwanted attention…people will become suspicious of you," the guard warned, his eyes narrow and his voice low. "It's just the way it is around these parts. Why the hell would you bring up such an accursed topic like that?"

"I just…wanted to see what you knew about it," Matt shrugged, holding up his hands. The guardsman slammed his empty mug down on the table and sighed heavily, obviously not very pleased to be having this conversation.

"Quite a bit, aye. If you're so damn interested…look, what _do _you know about them?"

Matt regaled the armored, currently nameless caravaneer everything he knew about the Harvesters—including things he had seen just that day, and heard from the outriders. The guard tried to fill him in on anything else, quietly.

"They're psychotic; all hyped up on hallucinogens and other things—makes them uncoordinated, but far more dangerous in single combat. They're liable to rip your arm off, if you let them get that close."

"Have you fought one—hand to hand, I mean?" Matt asked.

"A few times, yes. They aren't very good with swords—aye, if you can duck an oncoming blow from a giant maul, you're in a fair position to gut or hamstring one of them. But I'd rather not come face to face with one of those shrieking freaks. I'd rather have the bowmen feather them with arrows and be on my merry damn way."

A group of men carrying a small wooden cask came by the tent, and the guard called out to them. He refilled his mug, took a long swig of the light brownish ale, and belched happily, contented with himself.

"I couldn't live in this damned simulation without my drink. I'd rather kill myself if they ran out."

"Why do the Harvesters…er, do what they do?" Matt queried, his curiosity tonight insatiable. The guard sneered, sipping more of his ale as he spoke reluctantly.

"I dunno _why_. I know that the reason for their existence is in part the lack of law in the Southrun, and in another part the teachings of some crazy old fool who died a long time ago while on drugs. He led his followers to believe that hallucinogens were the key to ascending to godhood…that and ripping entrails out," he snorted sarcastically.

"Somebody _should _put an end to them. It's disgusting…you heard about the village, right?"

"Aye, I did. The outriders of Lord Partridge have been everywhere, spreading the news…another village has probably been attacked already, bless those poor fools," the caravaneer muttered. "Partridge doesn't have enough strength to bring order to this area of the land. Neither do the other Southrun lords. Lord Cymander, down at Moon's Eye, is the only one who has the force to do so, and the prick is unwilling to commit a single man-at-arms to the cause of justice."

Matt was lost in the terminology and layout of this land, but he let the guard continue all the same.

"Forty-thousand Lapiscloaks and countless footmen and reserve archers…and yet Cymander waits for something to happen. I dunno what he's waiting for, but he's got a powerful force just sitting down at the port city. It makes me nervous."

"Lapiscloaks?"

"You know…bluecoaks, blue men, the Lazuli Army…read a book, kid," the older man scoffed.

"There aren't any books in the village, really. Only the law codes and books on Birchwood history," Matt answered stiffly.

"Maybe someday you can visit a library. In any case, Cymander has a huge army—the largest in the Southrun, estimated to be nearly one-hundred and twenty thousand men in total. And he waits, sitting contentedly on mountains of gold and sworn swords. Pompous prat."

"Waits for—"

"I told you, I don't know!" the caravaneer snapped. "Enough about Harvesters and lords and armies and whispers…I've had enough of that bullshit for one day."

He finished his ale in one last swig, some of it dribbling down his stubbly chin and onto his mail.

"I know you're new here, boy, and I know this world seems really big. It is really big—there are a lot of bad people out there. You want a piece of advice from me?"

"Do I?" Matt asked, unsure even of himself. The man ignored him and continued.

"Your village here, your people, your girl, that's _all _you need to be concerned about. Don't concern yourself with robbers, brigands, knights, barons, cities, lords, ladies, armies, kings, nations, shadows…none of that, none at all. Take it from me, and my experience," he laughed. "And one more thing…pay no heed to the whispers. If you should ignore _anything_, ignore the whispers. They corrupt you, and haunt you until they break you down and consume everything you hold dear."

The crowd was beginning to thin now, drunk on wine and ale and full on all sorts of choice meats and cheeses. The caravaneer stood up and stretched heartily, shaking himself wide awake.

"We're leaving tonight. No sleep to be had on the road…no, no, it's a dangerous place, the road," he mused to himself. "I'd best be off, Master Evans won't be pleased to have a sword who's both drunk _and _tardy," he laughed.

"Where will you be going?"

"New Connaught, most likely. It's where all roads lead—unless you're in Reinhardt territory. We don't cross the river, in any case."

Matt was suddenly filled with a deep longing to see the rest of the world—_MINECRAFT _was a world he knew little about, something brand new and frightening, but intriguing. He knew all about Earth—he had seen maps, read books, watched videos, and learned. But this place was new and exciting—a place to make a new life. But then he remembered the advice he was given, and he was determined to forge his destiny in this little village, to forgo the lands beyond and stay close to his friends and his love.

_Home is where the heart is_, the old saying went. It was beginning to ring true.

"Heed my words, and keep your friends close. And forget about everything else—your place is here. The world is a dark and frightening place, and one misstep will kill you. It was a pleasure meeting someone who wasn't a complete lackwit for once."

Matt took this with a grain of salt, and as a compliment.

"Uh…thanks. Nice meeting you too?"

"You're better company than most of these peasants here. Stay safe—it's a dark night, and you never know who might be watching you."

The traveler departed, swinging his cloak around his body and leaving the tent. For quite a while, Matt sat at the bench, watching the stars slowly cross the night sky, watching the torches slowly burn out. Sora never returned—either she was too busy, or she had completely forgotten him. It was quite a shame—he wanted to say something, many things actually, but now none of them seemed to matter.

Before long, Matt realized that he was one of the last people present at the festival, besides the few drunks, and the organizers who were cleaning some things up. The torches were burning out, and most of the villagers had already gone home and fallen asleep.

Matt ambled slowly back to the town, passing the glowing embers of the daises and the long-extinguished bamboo poles that had served as lampposts. The gates were still open, miraculously; under close scrutiny by the sentries overhead, he passed into the town and found his way to the small shack he called home, feeling sleep beginning to overcome him.

Sora was fast asleep once more; Matt regretted the chance he had lost, the chance to say things that had been on his mind for many months before. But tomorrow would be another day—another droll day, one of farming and sowing and seeding and sweating. Just another plain old day.

He hadn't been in bed for ten minutes when an explosion rocked the entire house.


	4. The Winds of a Cruel Tempest

**Greetings internet! This chapter is dedicated to a special friend of mine, KatrinaLinden, another author on this site. Today is her birthday, and though I do regret lacking the time and talent to make something amazing for her, I hope that this small note shall suffice. You are in my thoughts, Katrina c:**

**And I regret not having time to do review replies this time around. I will make sure to do that next chapter! I just do not have the time today.**

**VVVVV**

The first clue that something bad had happened was the large explosion from outside. Matt leapt out of bed in an instant—he hadn't had a chance to fall asleep before the wall erupted. The second clue was the large chunk of roof that collapsed in, smashing his bed to pieces. If Matt had been asleep, he would likely be dead, or crushed beneath the timber and slats of wood.

But he was wide awake, dashing to pull some clothes on and grab something to defend himself. He had no idea what was going on, but it couldn't have been anything particularly benevolent.

Sora had disappeared; as a temporary, she left the world at night, which apparently occurred during Earth's daytime. Right now she was probably at school, waiting for night to come so she could sleep and return to _MINECRAFT_. She had that ability; Matt did not.

He flung the door open to find a bleeding guardsman on the steps, his leather armor full of blood-soaked holes. He was barely breathing, a large gash slicing down his cheek and blood pooling underneath his head. Matt had no idea who, or what, or how, or why, but the large gap in the southern wall told him one thing: _intruders_.

Fire, and smoke, both smells acrid and stinging. He could see the smoke rising above the collapsed roof of his house, coming from the town's square, but he could not see any flames. But where there was smoke, there would be fire—the ringing of steel clashing on steel and other objects was deafening, and seemed to surround Matt.

He did what he thought prudent at the moment—he slipped to the side of the house and hid amongst a woodpile, trying to gather his thoughts. He was trying to think about too many things at once—Sora, the fire, the explosion, the fighting—and he needed to think, and stay safe. Granted, the small woodpile adjoining the house wasn't the best place to sit and try to think, but Matt's judgment was clouded, and he had no other spot in mind.

As he hid, smoke began to pour from nearby houses, and he saw two shapes run by his own house, both foreign and unfamiliar. Matt dared not show his face to them; everything was a blur, every moment a concoction of confused emotions, thoughts of bravery, malice and cowardice running through his head at the speed of light.

He did not act until there was a commotion in the neighbor's house, and a man in his underwear ran out, brandishing a wooden cudgel and yelling indecipherable phrases at the top of his lungs. He was pursued by the armed attackers, who had their own crude morningstars raised, ready to do battle with the hapless peasant man. Matt recognized him as one of the fishermen, and decided to make his move.

The log he carried would have little effect on the helmeted men, he knew, but it would distract at least one of them. His attack was surprisingly effective; the attacker went down, nailed in the back of the head by the log Matt carried. However, this only drew attention from the other hostile, and as he knocked the fisherman down he went after Matt, raising his morningstar to bring it down for a crushing, fatal strike.

Matt tried to dodge to the side, but tripped over the other attack and fell on top of him, bringing him back to the ground. The morningstar-armed man's attack had too much power behind it, and it fell through, smashing into the ground and crushing someone's hand—not Matt's, but that of one of the other two men.

Knowing that he needed to get out of the way of the armed man, Matt tried to roll again, but the enemy he had pinned to the gravel ground caught him in a vise grip and threw Matt to the ground, now the dominant persona of the fight.

Matt saw the face clearly by the burning torch nearby; or rather, the mask that concealed that face. It was one of those stereotypical theatre happy/sad masks—those weepy eyes, the clichéd frown, and not an inch of face to be shown. It was almost like he was fighting a monster, not a human being; in his desperation, Matt aimed for the eyeholes and jabbed his thumbs upward with all the strength he could muster, when faced with certain death.

Blood spurted from those eyeholes, making the mask truly weep tears, crimson drops. The man screamed—he was truly a man, not some masked freak without emotion. He screamed and clawed at the mask, clawing at Matt's hands, clutching at his face and rolling over onto the gravel. Sitting up, Matt looked first at his thumbs, covered in blood, and then at the body of both the fisherman and the other attacker. The poor peasant's face had been smashed in with the morningstar; the other hostile had been killed perhaps seconds later, hit in the neck by a bodkin arrow. And the screaming man rolled onto the gravel, grasping madly at his face and trying to pull the theatre mask off.

Fire was beginning to consume Matt's own house; he was torn between rushing in to grab things, and running away as far as he could.

_This was the work of Harvesters. They didn't come the night they were supposed to attack, and we let our guard down. We let our guard down that easily…_

Of course, they were waiting for the festival…after expecting an attack the previous night, everyone would already be relaxed. With all of that food and drink, not even the sentries would be up for a fight with raiders as rabid and bloodthirsty as the Harvesters.

Matt was running, running barefooted over the rough and pebbly gravel, past bodies hewn to pieces and dismembered and disemboweled, and horrid to even take a moment's glance at. He knew that none of them could be Sora—she was one of the few temporaries who had the gift of being able to leave the simulation voluntarily—but he still felt pangs of guilt for running away from the keeper, from Roger, from the other farmers he was becoming acclimated to…

He was up on the eastern hill when he dared to look behind him. Set against the tall trees of the Birchwood, the little unnamed collection of hovels and other buildings was ablaze, smoke rising in tall and menacing columns from the orange and yellow fires that licked everything in their path. The screams and cries and pleas of mercy could be heard even this far from the town, out in the farthest farms. Nobody would come and tend to these crops anymore; the plots would wither and die out, never to be harvested again. By morning, the entire town would be ash and rubble, ruined and abandoned by everyone except for the few lucky survivors and the few temporaries who would return to the scene of destruction. He decided to trek a little further, find a safe spot to hide and wait until morning, when the temps returned to the server.

Just as he thought he was safe, Matt was tackled by something out of the darkness. The heavy man lumbered out of a field of wheat and attacked him, tackling him into a patch of potatoes, the last field of crops, and began to roll down the hill. His attacker had apparently underestimated his strength, and did not expect to carry his prey all the way down the incline. They picked up speed, faster and faster, rolling through crops and through soil. Matt tried to defend himself, but the powerful brute of a Harvester couldn't find his own footing or strength, either; they both just rolled and rolled, accelerating at a dangerous pace.

Neither of them saw the boulder before they both smashed into it.

VVVVV

When he woke up, Matt was wet—his clothes were soaked with water, the shabby clothing he had slipped on the previous night. Day had already risen; the sun was high in the sky, high above him in an azure void.

He was lying in shallow water, the liquid flowing around him as if he were an obstacle. He could tell he was in a small stream; his head was pounding like mad, and every muscle in his body ached. His left arm especially; he couldn't move it at all—every time he tried, it brought a new, sharp slash of pain and he could do no more.

"Well, looks like fate saw fit to bring us together again. You look like you had a rough night, kid."

The voice was familiar—Matt looked up, saw that stubbly, worn face, and groaned, wishing that it could have been somebody else—_anybody _else.

"Usually, I'm the one who ends up in a river, after having so much ale like that," the caravaneer laughed, kneeling down beside Matt. "Looks like we switched places last night."

"What the hell…are you doing here?" Matt winced, staring the guardsman in the face. He wore the same thing that he had been wearing at the festival—oiled mail, a tattered hauberk, and worn features.

"I could ask you the same. You're mighty lucky, even though you're in bad shape."

"I tried to run…you know about—"

"The village? Yeah, we left about an hour before shit went down. We saw the smoke rising over the hills, and figured we'd keep to the river instead of the road. Looks like you're lucky we decided to do that, eh?"

"You didn't go back, did you?"

"Why would we? It would've been a fool's errand," a sharper, rougher voice chimed in. A bearded-man, bristly and stone-faced, leaned over next to the caravaneer. "Harvesters aren't to be toyed with. We're lucky we left when we did."

"And lucky we found you," the other guard spoke. "It was nice chatting with you and all, but I never figured I'd find you again, soiled and lying in the water. Come on; let's get you up out of there."

The guard from the festival grabbed Matt's left arm, and Matt roared in pain, feeling it splintering up his arm and shoulder.

"Aye, Royce, his arm's broken. Try to grab him under the shoulder, I'll get his legs," the bearded man announced, stepping into the river and splashing water all over Matt, who was already soaked to the bone.

"Hold still, kid. Don't move, I won't touch your arm," the guard named Royce ordered. He slipped his own hands under Matt's arms, and gently lifted him up out of the cool water as his legs followed.

"We taking him with us?" the bearded man asked uncertainly. They stepped up onto a sandy embankment, and ascended the gradual slope with little difficulty. Matt hung there, complacent, staring up at the blue sky.

"We can't just leave him here, Tobbar. We can take him a little ways, to Mauvrim perhaps."

"Is there a healer there?"

"I dunno, but Master Evans might remember. We'll tell him everything once we get back to the caravan."

The two men, grumbling and struggling, hauled Matt up the smooth slope and towards what appeared to be a long dirt road, where several wagons were stopped and horses hitched to a few small dogwood trees alongside the roadway.

"Aye, Evans, we didn't brink you any water. Will a boy suffice?" the man named Tobbar, the bearded man, called out to someone at the caravan. A minced oath could be heard, as well as footsteps. The two men stopped, but did not set Matt down.

"Where in the _Nether _did you find _him_?"

"Down in the river, Master. He's had a nasty number done on him," Tobbar spoke up.

"He was in that village last night, the one we stopped in. I saw him at the festival," Royce added.

"A survivor? You mean he's not a temporary?"

"He's a permanent, I would figure. Are you a permanent, boy?" Tobbar barked. Matt nodded weakly, now feeling nauseous and delirious. In the heat of the early morning, the cold water of the river would have been welcome—the sun shone down on his face and upper chest, with nothing to block it out.

"He's luckier than he knows. Load him into one of the wagons, and let's get moving again. The smoke still rises," the man with the shriller voice, Master Evans, said. He pointed off to the south, and from out of the corner of his eye Matt could indeed see smoke wafting into the metallic blue sky.

"We're not taking him with us, are we?" another man, out of view, complained brusquely.

"We can't just leave him here. The boy's arm is broken, and he's probably delirious," Royce argued. To prove his point, Matt coincidentally chose the moment to lean over and dry heave into the grass, barely held aloft by the two caravaneers Tobbar and Royce.

"Not to mention nauseous. He's coming with us," Evans said.

"It's another mouth to feed—"

"We can take him to the healer at Mauvrim, and no further. We'll be there by lunch, and you'll get your fair share of bread and meat, Clyde. Now shut up and unhitch the horses," Evans ordered.

"Which wagon should we put him in?" Royce asked.

"Whichever one has more space. If there isn't space, make some—I'm not about to leave a man to die out in the sun."

Master Evans, though not necessarily amicable, sounded honorable and trustworthy; Matt put his faith in the caravan to get him somewhere relatively safe, and fell asleep almost instantly after the small band of wagons took off, soothed into a restless, brief slumber by the rocking motion of the carts.

VVVVV

James Kleiner watched the hustle and bustle of the busy city of New Connaught beneath his villa's observation tower, spiraling high above the home itself. The cancer of the poor city grew every larger with each passing year and each new danger. Thousands of miners, woodsmen, adventurers and farmers seeking safety in numbers, all fleeing to the grand conglomeration of a city and straining her resources. Many of the houses in the metropolis were shanty huts and shacks—designed only to provide the most base of needs. Kleiner counted himself lucky that he was of the nobility; he commanded fifteen-thousand sworn swords, and another several thousand archers and footmen, as well as numerous fiefs on the edge of the fiery peak.

And yet now he was discontented; even upset, perhaps.

There was war brewing. Coincidentally, the fiery peak known quite originally as "Connaught Peak" was beginning to belch forth smoke and ashes again, cueing a period of activity that may end without any unusual circumstance, or might end in fire and destruction for the great city of millions lying in its shadow.

_A war brews, and a volcano awakens. How many more troubles must be laid at my feet?_

_Oh, right. Add a tarrying lord who waits for something to happen, and lets the realm fall apart slowly_.

Lord Kastner had been a great leader, once; Kleiner, when he was young, had fought with him against the betrayer Sophia Caullon ten years ago, and had been eyewitness to the mighty lord's leadership prowess. Kastner was so well-known and so deft at politics, he was considered to be the de facto "king" of _MINECRAFT_, even though there was no true monarchy, only an assembly of advisors who barely controlled dozens of power-hungry, striving feudal lords.

Kastner's failure to contain the many lords had led to one becoming too powerful:

_Stanislaus Antar. He's like the Kastner of Reinhardt…he maintains almost complete control over Reinhardt territory, all the way down to the southern sea._

Antar was a dangerous, calculating and cunning man; how he came to control of Reinhardt was due to the lack of bickering lords in the region. Antar seized power for himself, establishing a one-man democracy of sorts. He had all the power, but he was fair and generous with it, which had won him many swords. He was in charge, for the rest of his life, but his relaxed rule and fair justice system made him popular with the millions of people he ruled.

_People who could just as easily be used as soldiers_, Kleiner knew.

Antar already had nearly two-hundred thousand men sworn to him, all well-trained and prepared for battle. Kastner's personal force numbered less than thirty-thousand; a large army, but pitifully outnumbered by Antar's superior forces.

_He dawdles and waits for something. But what?_

Kleiner knew that action of all different sorts needed to be taken; Antar gathered his strength, the volcano rumbled, Kenly beaten, whispers of a darkness rising in the east…and so much more.

And the bickering in the Southrun caused even greater divides. Not only did brigands and marauders prey upon the peasantry and villages of the Southrun, but lesser lords fought and quarreled over land and resources, adding to the chaos. And Cymander…did what he always did. Sit and do nothing, hoarding his gold and lapis and his forty-thousand elite swordsmen.

_But Darius Cymander doesn't have a job to do, unlike Kastner. Kastner wants to be king…yet he lacks the mettle to act when he needs to._

_And a king without mettle is like a sword without an edge._

Kleiner had no interest in taking rule of the entire land for himself—_MINECRAFT_, or the server area known colloquially as "Minecraftia", was far too big for one man to rule, or so he thought. It was nearly two-thousand miles from the southern sea, the port of Moon's Eye, to New Connaught, and a thousand miles across from the Trade Nations in the west to the Burned Lands in the east. Kastner had no immediate desire to rule something this large, but James Kleiner had been noticing his behavior had changed lately, especially with Antar's growing threat.

_He has that glimmer in his eye…all men desire power, even the more honest ones. I can tell he wants it…but he couldn't handle it._

Kleiner knew he felt this same pull, the magnetic attraction of power—seductive, calling to him every moment.

_Seize power, take control of Minecraftia…you can lead it to safety, end the feuding, and bring a new era of peace…_

He had been resisting the call for some time now, knowing that he could not handle ruling the entire nation. If he had declared himself the single monarch of the entire land, not only would he have to contend with Kastner, who considered himself the best choice for such a position, but he would have to contend with Antar and his massive army as well.

_I might have to do that anyway. Antar will make a move within the year_.

And when that happened, he would rather have Kastner on his side. But that was a decision to be made at a later date, one that would be dependent on the events that transpired within the next few weeks, and possibly months. For now, there was more crucial and urgent business to attend to. The volcano…

_The slumbering giant wakes. What an appropriate image._

VVVVV

The first sign of trouble came from the smoke; columns of thick black smoke meant _nothing _but trouble.

Matt woke up smelling the acrid scent, and as he sat up he saw it rising over the next hillock.

"That's not a good sign," Royce spoke, trotting alongside the wagon on a brown, slightly lame horse. "Smoke's never a good sign."

"Is that…the village?" Matt asked, queasy and light-headed. He blinked against the harsh gleam of the afternoon sun; the wagon had a top over it, wool and cloth, but the angle of the sun allowed it to reach inside the covered cart, and it shone in Matt's eyes.

"We'll just have to see. But where there's smoke, there's fire, eh?"

"And a thousand other damned things," Tobbar added, spitting on the dirt road. They were at least fifteen miles away from Matt's old home now; soon, Sora would probably return to her house and find it nothing but a smoldering ruin. Days in Minecraft were shorter than days on Earth; she would be back at home for at least a week in this world.

"What about it, Evans? See anything?" Royce called up to the vanguard of the caravan, consisting of the largest wagon, the caravan master, and one of the armed guards riding alongside.

"We haven't crested the hilltop yet, all I can see is smoke. If there's trouble ahead, I'll stop the caravan!" he called back.

"Be ready to come to a halt," Royce alerted the driver of Matt's wagon, who nodded brusquely before turning back to his work, chewing a greenish leaf idly.

Almost immediately afterwards, the caravan of wagons came to a halt at the top of the small crest. Royce and Tobbar, beckoned by the caravan master, rode ahead, leaving Matt alone at the back of the convoy, left to lie in the shade and wonder what they had stopped for. He could hear them plain as day, though, even though he couldn't see the riders.

"You've got to be kidding me," Tobbar's gravelly voice grumbled.

"Well, we're you expecting a warm welcome? Perhaps it's a warm welcome, but it's also a bit smoky," Royce joked.

"Clyde, ride in and see what you can find. If you see any signs of people, steer clear and come back without being spotted. Try to be stealthy," Evans ordered.

Clyde seemed to believe that this was impossible, given the fact that he could be clearly seen from the town, but Matt heard him ride off anyway, and there was silence for a short period of time. He could see the tall columns of black smoke rising up from ahead.

It was nearly ten minutes before hoof beats came back, signaling the outrider's return. Matt could hear him rein his horse in parallel to the first wagon.

"How does it look?" Evans asked, doing little to hide his fear.

"Death, ruin, fire. I didn't find a single soul alive—just bodies, and wreckage," Clyde reported.

Matt's heart sank. He was supposed to find safety, and perhaps a chance to heal at Mauvrim. And from there, he could travel back home and find Sora and try to rebuild after the attack…but not anymore. There was nothing for him here, if Clyde the outrider was to be believed.

"Are you certain?" Royce asked nervously.

"Could be a few hiding somewhere, but there were dozens of bodies out in the streets. And not all of them were villagers, either," the outrider said.

"There were raiders, too?"

"Not raiders, master," he reported. "Others…perhaps you should take a closer look."

"Aye," Evans acknowledged, sighing deeply. "Royce, take up the rear, have the wagons led into town and decamp them somewhere defensible. Tobbar, Clyde, take lead and keep an eye out for trouble. It's not likely that the attackers are still here, but…"

Matt felt the wagons move again as Royce rode back to the rearguard of the convoy. As he crested the hill, he was able to look out upon the village of Mauvrim, or the sad remain that it had become.

It had looked like his village; sun-dried brick wall, timber and log houses, some brick buildings, and gravel streets. A few sparse trees had been scattered around the hamlet, but they resembled nothing but toasted toothpicks now. Every building was gutted by fire, scorched and blackened; the brick buildings had been gutted, and most of the wooden structures had burnt down. Matt could discern numerous tiny shapes lying haphazardly around the town, splayed out on the gravel pathways.

"I remember Mauvrim being a bit…cheerier," Royce joked. Matt could not stomach such a cruel jest, but he did not chew the rider out, either; he just kept his silence, closing his eyes and doing his best to ignore the stench of flesh and fire.

"It smells horrible," Matt groaned, feeling like retching again as they drew closer to the town, down the dirt roadway.

"I've smelled that scent many times before. I won't deny you that, it's wretched…burnt flesh."

Matt clenched his nostrils together and tried to avoid breathing in the air. The closer they came to the town, the fouler the smell became, until even Royce began to look green in the face. From farther ahead, Matt could hear one of the other men, either one of the wagon-drivers or the riders, vomiting from his saddle.

"This is a cursed place," the driver of the wagon in the middle spat, barely audible. "There's been murder done here…"

"And a dozen other places we've been before," Evans remarked. "Yet you never complained at Goldrun, or Malley. Not even that hellish scene at Birch Crossing."

"This feels different," the driver complained, as he led his wagon to the square and bailed off of his horse. He was an older man, his features worn and frail and wrinkled, wearing naught but underclothes, a light tabard and a sunhat. "I don't like the feel of the place. There's murder, and dark sorcery at work here."

"Shut your trap, you old fool. Hitch the damn horses, and keep an eye on the wagons. If I lose _any _of that lapis silk, it's coming out of your wallet."

"I'd rather run back to the other village. It doesn't have that feeling to it, not like this."

But the caravan master paid no heed to the elderly driver, and bailed off of his own horse, dismounting and tying the beast to a nearby hitching post, one that was charred but not destroyed outright.

"Why the hell _are _we stopping here?" Tobbar asked, still mounted. "The town's dead, let's just move on and try to get to the Brackwood by nightfall."

"We're looking for supplies," Evans told him. "Medicine, food, weapons, anything of use. Search around the town, see if you can find anything…and kid?"

Evans called back to Matt, who was rising from his prone position inside the wagon.

"Yes—"

"Get some fresh air. Walk if you can—while you've got the chance. It might help."

Matt, his legs burning and sore, stood up as soon as he had exited the wagon, and tried to stretch to keep his muscles warmed up. The sun was bright, and the day was hot, but a cool wind blew out of the west, and it brought some relief for the heat.

"Take some water if you want it," the caravan master offered a leather canteen full of water. Matt, without a word, graciously accepted it and took long, deep swigs of the cool liquid. He needed to keep his strength up after his ordeal of the previous night; however, he wouldn't be getting his arm mended anytime soon, at least not today. All hopes of that had disappeared along with the village of Mauvrim.

Matt wasn't sure what possessed him to wander off from the caravan; Master Evans was busy hitching the horses to various objects in the town square, and Matt was free to examine the village for himself. The prospect of washing his face in the cool stream that ran alongside the town was enough to draw him away from the wagons.

The village was truly dead; burned and battered bodies littered the streets, but none of them were severely mutilated. Even Matt, with his limited knowledge of the inner workings of Minecraftia, knew that this attack wasn't the work of Harvesters; slashes and stab wounds on the villagers' corpses were too precise for bloodthirsty raiders. It could've been the work of well-organized bandits...but even they would've given themselves away by stealing everything in sight. Most of the peasants still had their wallets or purses on their persons.

The one body down by the water was what attracted Matt; he had slipped out one of the gates and found it on the rocky banks of the stream, soaking wet and bloody. The man had been hit by an arrow; the shaft stuck out of his back, and another had pierced him at the hip.

It was not the man's eyes that stood out, nor the blood staining his shirt and tabard. It was the pendant that drew Matt's attention; a beautiful piece, a bluish-green glass orb no larger than a man's fingernail, hanging on a silver chain. The pendant was still around the dead peasant's neck, the silvery chain spattered with a bit of scarlet blood.

Matt couldn't resist taking the small treasure for himself; it seemed to draw him, urge him to take the small trinket, just because…because he needed it?

_Why did he need it? The pendant wasn't a necessity…why was he so possessed to take it and stow it away somewhere safe, in his care?_

Before he could try to stop himself, Matt stooped low and snatched the necklace from the man's body. In another second, he had it safely stowed away in his left pocket, hidden from anyone else.

As he returned, he was queried by Master Evans about what he'd seen. Matt felt nervous—did the caravan master know that he had stolen something? Would he even _care_? The man was dead, anyways…he didn't need that pendant anymore…

But Evans asked nothing about stolen objects. He only wanted to know what the scene was down by the stream. Matt gave his report, which matched what Clyde and Tobbar had said after taking a quick look at other areas in the village.

"Bodies, bodies, and more damned bodies," Tobbar spat after he returned, carrying two fine iron longswords with him. "I found these on a couple of corpses. They were burned badly, but they had nice blades with them."

"These are sharp…and well made. Not peasantry weapons, nor brigand blades," Clyde said, reining his horse in. He rarely dismounted from his animal; even when he ate, he usually sat on his horse and consumed his food in silence.

At that moment, Royce chose to return from one of the side streets, hauling a corpse behind him. Unlike most of the bodies, this one was not charred or burned completely; it was almost whole, except for the mangled and shattered leg.

"You got something to show us, Royce, or did you just drag a body back as a souvenir?" Tobbar joked, and the younger wagon driver, the one who had been leading Matt's wagon, laughed loudly.

"Both. He has some gold, but that's not what concerns me, really. Take a look," Royce grumbled, and tossed the body at the master's feet.

The man was a soldier, which was certain; underneath the tabard he wore chainmail, both on his chest and his legs. But it was not the mail or the pot helmet that was concerning; apparently, it was the symbol on his leather tabard.

"The sign of House Renn…the flickering candle, I recognize it," Evans whispered, peering down at the body.

"There were a few more bodies just like this one out by the farms. All bearing the same sigil, men of Lord Cameron Renn."

"More than one?" Evans asked, to be sure.

"Three, to be precise. You can go check them out if you want," Royce offered.

"Not necessary…I'll take your word for it." He bent down to examine the dead man more closely. The tabard and mail were split at the shoulder, and a gruesome wound presented itself—the man's arm had been nearly hacked off, most likely by a wood axe. "Why are Renn's men here, though…?"

"Mauvrim belongs to Lady Elena, doesn't it?" Clyde asked.

"Aye, it does. Not that there's much left to own."

"What do we do with the body, then?" Royce asked, standing above the corpse.

"We leave it, along with everything else. We have no part in this—conflict. Renn attacked Elena, that is what I assume. I want no part of politics, or war," Master Evans declared. "Leave the corpse here. Anyone who comes through here will know what happened."

"I can't see anything good coming of this," Royce muttered as he mounted up, leaving the dead soldier where he lay.

"Renn's men slaughtering an entire town of villagers? _Anything _that results from this will have major repercussions," Clyde pointed out, already mounted.

"Enough about it. We leave Mauvrim and everything that happened behind. Don't take _anything_ with you," Evans warned. Matt could've sworn the caravan master shot one last glance back at him before unhitching the horses, mounting his wagon and leading the caravan off towards one of the gates, back to the dirt road.

Sitting in the back wagon, Matt felt the pendant ensconced safely in his pocket, hidden from prying eyes. He dared not examine it until he was alone, whenever that might be.

The small party wound its way over the hills and off to the north, leaving the burning ruin of the town of Mauvrim behind them.


	5. Brackwood Keep

**Greetings internet! I am suffering from that evil beast, LAG! I'm sure you all know the horrible feeling.**

**This story will have a cover soon! I am currently awaiting the work of the wonderful HPE24, so I will do that patiently. Review answers, the next chapter!**

**REVIEW ANSWERS:**

**TerrarianCreeper: Cymander has no relation to Darius. I just wanted to give him the name of one of the great Persian emperors, I thought it would be fitting. And no, I have not watched Gurren Lagann recently o.O**

**HPE24: Oh yes, the pendant. Lots of trouble to be caused there! And thank you very much for the chocolate :D**

**EclipseWolf64: Was it totally worth a horrible substitute? Well, I am flattered c:**

**Woohooman14: In due time, Leon will make his appearance. But glad to hear that you are enjoying it!**

**VVVVV**

Brackwood Keep was by no means grand or intimidating; it was more of a motte-and-bailey, a small wooden castle with a wooden palisade and a few outbuildings. And yet this was the center of power for Lady Elena Lanos, the reigning baron of the Brackwood.

"Lady Elena's a fair woman, and she's quite well loved by common folk," Tobbar commented, riding alongside the back wagon. "She's always been on good terms with Lords Partridge and Chamberlin. Not Renn, though…not Renn."

"There are so many lords and ladies in this damned land," Matt murmured, wiping sweat from his brow. He didn't feel feverish at all; just warm and tired. The sun was sinking low in the western horizon now, as they followed a large river towards a distant forest.

"Dozens and dozens. Not for you to be concerned with," Tobbar warned. "Stay out of trouble, and it will stay out of you. Or some quotes goes like that," he growled, and then became silent.

The caravan plied their way up the dirt road and towards the motte gates, where the guards on top opened the doors to allow passage in.

The small party entered the motte and decamped in the central plaza, a dirt common where hitching posts and a well were located, and nothing else. The small keep held a stable, a bowyer, a barracks area, a forge and a mill, all incredibly small. The entire castle was small; the main tower barely rose over the trees behind it, the forest of the Brackwood.

"Where do you come from?" one of the guardsmen inquired blandly as the horses were hitched and the wagons drawn aside one another.

"Moon's Eye, heading up to Connaught," Master Evans answered.

"A caravan route, eh? Lady Lanos would be most pleased if you were to join her for supper tonight, if it would suit you."

"We won't be staying for long, but we would be much obliged to join your Lady for a short while," Evans replied, remaining polite. However, the mood changed when Tobbar spoke up again.

"For a short while? I thought we were spending the night," Tobbar fussed, suddenly unhappy. "We're not going to stay outside the walls, right?"

"I never said we were staying at Brackwood Keep, _or _outside the walls. We press on tonight, get as close to Milltown as possible. From there, it's not far to New Connaught."

"You mean we're going _back _out?" Tobbar asked, incredulous. "Are you mad? We were supposed to stay here for the night!"

"I'm with him," Royce added. "I'd feel more comfortable with a roof over my head and walls around my bed, myself."

"Times are getting' dangerous, Master Evans," the old driver spoke, the one who had been uneasy back in Mauvrim. "There's raiders and thieves about, and whispers about strange shadows stalking in the dark."

"I am aware of the dangers out there," Evans spat back, ignoring the continuous complaints lobbed at him by Tobbar. "But Royce and Tobbar are some of the best swords I know, and Clyde has the eyes of a hawk. I'd feel just as safe out in the night as I would in a castle keep."

"Lady Lanos would be pleased to have you stay the night, I'm certain she would welcome your presence," the guardsman added, feeling slightly uncomfortable at the moment.

"I thank your Lady for her hospitality, but we will move on _tonight_," Evans impressed, speaking more to this own men than to the guard. "Announce to Lady Lanos that we will be dining briefly and then moving out."

"Of course, sir. She will be happy to have guests," the guardsman said, bowed slightly, and then walked off to the keep, as the last of the suns' rays vanished and night rose fully.

"This is a fool's errand, Master," the old driver warned, sounding weary. "We go out in the middle of the night, we're just asking for trouble to come after us."

"Royce and Tobbar have good sword-arms, and I trust in them. If we stay at every little keep we come across, it'll be another week and a half up to New Connaught. I'd rather make the best time possible—two days to Milltown, and another three days to New Connaught. We'd get about five hours of sleep a night, enough for you blokes," Evans explained.

"We'll be murdered in our sleep," Tobbar muttered, but nobody else complained. They were paid by Master Evans; if they dared argue with him, their paychecks were at risk.

After setting everything up in the center square, the six men and Matt took the path up to the keep, whose doors were open and inviting to all guests. A pair of lightly-armed guards stood at the entryway, but they simply shrugged and allowed the caravaneers to pass.

"Lady Lanos is well known for her hospitality," Royce spoke, assuming a pleasant tone as they entered the crowded and smoky main hall. "She invites people of all banners and colors just for dinner. It's said that she relies on guests for news and information—something we can definitely provide."

"Don't mention Mauvrim unless prompted. It's not our jobs to bear bad news," Evans warned. "Be pleasant, be polite, and most of all, enjoy the damned food. You won't get fancy fare like this once you're back out on that dirt road."

The hall was full of benches and tables lined up against the walls and out in the middle. Most of the tables were occupied, covered in food and dinnerware. Men of all shapes and sizes feasted, talked and smoked; Matt recognized only one of their insignias—one of the crosshatches of the trading company that Royce and the others were employed by.

As Matt expected, the small group found their way to the other trader and sat beside him, next to large bowls of stew and plates full of fat cuts of beef and salt pork.

"I don't suppose you're finding your way up to New Connaught, are you?" Evans asked as he sat beside the lone caravaneer.

"Not finding my way anywhere. I'm staying right damn here, if you please. Lost everyone else down by the Clearrun," the man answered, his voice barely audible. He nibbled calmly on a strip of beef. "Or, well, two of us survived. The other guy got an infected cut and died two days ago."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Evans remarked, as the rest of his crew sat down. I was seated in between the master and Royce; while the caravan master began to enter a conversation with our new friend, Royce began to drown himself in fine ale.

"Life happens, shit happens, you can't do anything but deal with it," the lone man spat. "Harvesters, they were. Killed all but two of us, took everything but our swords and our clothes. Damn them all."

"They've been quite active lately," Evans mused, but made no mention of Matt's village, or Mauvrim. The lone caravaneer simply nodded.

"Aye. Law means less and less every day down here. The Southrun is becoming a wild place."

The man excused himself quietly and left, concealing a nice slice of salt pork against his chest as he left the feast. Matt, in the absence of decent or intelligible conversation, turned his attention to the Lady Lanos, sitting at the far back of the main hall in her throne chair.

She was a beautiful woman, close to thirty by his guess; although her clothes weren't particularly royal or stunning, they were clean and well-crafted, exotic lace and fine wool sewn together to make some sort of hybrid outfit. Even though she was much older than he was, Matt had to marvel at her beauty; her long, curly blonde hair fell like a waterfall over her left shoulder, much like Sora's.

"Got an eye for the Lady up there, eh?" Royce jested, nudging Matt uncomfortably with his elbow.

"I didn't mean to—"

"You're not alone, Matt. Every man in this room has an eye for her—lowborn peasants and highborn knights alike. But she'll have none of their affections. That's just the way she is."

"Of Greek origin, some say," Evans pitched in, loading his plate with some mashed potatoes that had just arrived to the table. "Hence the surname Lanos. She's a temporary, so she's relatively well connected to home. She's quite knowledgeable about both Earth and _MINECRAFT_."

"Aye, that she is. She's second only to Lady Suwon, and she's got that pendant stashed away somewhere. Such a lovely piece, it's rumored to be," Royce said, finishing his ale off. Tobbar muttered something about this comrade drinking far too much, but the swordsman ignored the jape.

"A…p-pendant?" Matt asked, shaking a bit. His hand instinctively flashed to his pocket, feeling for the small lump there; either Royce had not seen it, or he was too drunk to notice, but he continued on.

"Oh, yes, attached to a silver chain. Supposed to be a wonderful piece, bluish-green and brilliant—"

"_Rumors_," Tobbar spat into his mug. "All a bunch of rumors."

"Why do you damn well care? Envious of a piece of women's jewelry?" Royce asked, smacking his comrade playfully on the shoulder.

"You haven't heard half of the stories I've heard. Most of the men out by the Great River speak of its magical properties, and the hillbillies out east think it's a thing of evil. It's just a piece of pretty jewelry, probably doesn't even exist," Tobbar snorted.

Matt clutched his pocket more tightly, keeping his hand hidden beneath the table. A tiny bead of sweat flickered to life at his brow and, suddenly realizing its existence, rolled slowly down his cheek, tickling his bare flesh.

"Oh, it's legendary. You know the story of Adeline Jones, right?" Royce asked.

"Bunch of old tosh. Heroes and heroines of old, mean as much as manure to me," Tobbar sneered.

"If you can't eat or drink it, it means nothing to you," Royce joked, and received a heavy punch from his comrade.

"Behave…the both of you. If you can't hold your ale, go outside—we're in the presence of a lady," Master Evans warned. He motioned to Lady Lanos sitting up on her throne, watching over the crowd of feasting patrons, but she had not noticed the small spat between the two men.

"I need some fresh air anyway. The smoke and the stink are getting to me," Royce declared, before scooting out from the bench and stalking down the aisle, bringing his ale mug with him.

Matt felt his fist open up a bit, and his burden lighten. But he turned to the caravan master anyway, inquiring about knowledge.

"Do you know anything about this…er, pendant?" he asked, swallowing nervously.

"The story is well known. The facts are probably mangled beyond any doubt, but the general outline is clear."

Speaking quietly and below the clamor of dozens of patrons, the caravan master explained the story of the pendant to Matt, as he recalled from childhood tales. Many centuries ago, a young woman by the name of "Adeline Jones" came to the simulation somehow, from her home on Earth. She was the original bearer of the pendant, a magical amulet that granted her some sort of unknown powers. When the beautiful Adeline died, the pendant passed on from generation to generation as humans began to populate the world—until the Great Disaster, when it was lost in the chaos of fire and ash. It was found again, and had been passed into the hands of House Lanos of the Brackwood.

"That's the story?" Matt asked, his voice breaking momentarily.

"Aye, that's the full of it. As much as I heard, when I was a child—it's no more than child's fantasy in that case, the whole story of Adeline Jones. The pendant certainly exists, Tobbar's just a blockhead—"

"The pendant no longer sits in the hands of our Lady Lanos," one of the other men at the table joined in. "I'm sorry I eavesdropped, but I thought I might inform you," the old, weathered traveler spoke. His voice was strong for his age, but his features were weak and weary from a long life.

"She lost it?"

"Gone missing, or stolen. It's unlikely that some pox-ridden scoundrel stole it—Lady Lanos kept it well concealed, and known only to herself. But it's gone, somehow…misplaced, taken, thrown out, nobody knows," the man revealed.

"She seems to be quite jovial at this point," Matt noticed, glancing upwards at the young lady in her throne chair. She was listening to one of her civil servants, smiling warmly as the man spoke into her ear.

"Aye, it's a mystery. And not for you to get involved in. Don't listen to the whispers, and keep your eyes where they belong. Don't be looking at her for too long," the old man warned, and Matt hastily returned his attention to his dinner plate. He pushed some cold mashed potatoes around his plate, constantly thinking about the pendant he had stowed away in his pocket.

_The pendant of Lady Lanos, and Adeline Jones before her…what the hell am I doing with it? I'm not a hero, and I'm not royalty. So why me?_

He felt the smooth, hard stone with his hand, the cold silver chain bundled up in a small pile at the bottom of his pocket. It was different from other necklaces…it felt special, like it had some sort of certain power to it. Seductive, tempting…and yet alienating at the same time, such a weird feeling. For one brief moment, he pulled the pendant out into plain sight, watched the silver chain rattle and the tiny stone swing. He felt like one of the men was watching him…some guy with a brown beard and an eyepatch stood far behind him, but he was smoking a pipe and paid no mind.

"We'd best be going," Evans announced, standing up from the bench.

"Already? Dessert hasn't even started," the younger of the two drivers complained, chewing glumly on pork.

"Eat any more, Rys, and your belly will like to burst. Come on, we're heading out. The more time we make on the road, the better."

Neither of the drivers argued anymore; Clyde did not look particularly happy about departing, and Rys grumbled under his breath about their leave-taking, but they both followed Evans out towards the main door. Matt led the rear, taking one last swig of cold, clear water before leaving the bench.

It was then that, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man, his clothes ragged and wet, his hair mussed and dirty, running from out of one of the hall's side doors towards the throne. In one hand he held a pot helmet of sorts; in the other, a scabbard. As the other men noticed him, they grew silent; eventually, the entire dining hall was deathly quiet, waiting for the word of the dirty man.

"My Lady Lanos…"

"Sir Kyled…what brings you to my hall in such a bedraggled state?" the Lady Lanos asked pleasantly, with a hint of a teasing smile, and several of the attendees chuckled mockingly.

"My Lady…Mauvrim…there's nothing left."

There was no laughter this time; Lady Lanos' smile evaporated as quickly as ice on a steaming day. Her face suddenly grew dark, and then pale, all within the span of a few quiet, cold seconds.

"Gone? Destroyed?"

"Yes, My Lady…and I think the perpetrators might surprise you."

The knight by the name of Sir Kyled threw down the scabbard and the helmet, right in front of the throne. They both clattered on the tile floor, as Lady Lanos stooped to examine them.

"The sigil of House Renn," she noted weakly, turning as pale as old oatmeal.

A current of hushed and fearful murmurs rippled through the grand hall, as men turned to one another and spoke quietly, anxiously.

"Seven bodies of soldiers belonging to Lord Cameron Renn. The only others bodies there were those of peasants of Mauvrim. My men examined the scene thoroughly, and there were no signs of brigands or bandits at all."

Now the mutters turned to anger and hate; Matt could tell simply by listening to every man at once. Before he could hear any more, he felt a powerful arm dragging him out of the hall.

"I told you, Matt, whispers will destroy you," Royce admonished him as they left the warmth of the smoky hall for the cool night outside. "Let the houses and the lords go at each other's throats. Our only concern is the road now."

"I only wanted to listen—"

"There's the mistake," Royce chuckled, as he hauled Matt back out to the square. "Don't listen to them. They're full of hot air. This'll probably amount to nothing, unless Kastner decides to stick his prick into the affair."

"Don't speak of politics. Let's leave them here," Evans reprimanded. "We'll have none of that on the road."

The crew saddled and mounted up, untying the horses and making sure everything was loaded onto the wagons. Matt looked back once more at the smoky, well-lit hall, breathing warm, sweet air as the wagon began to move once more.

"We'll get that arm of yours mended soon enough," Royce reassured him as he rode beside the wagon, chewing something slowly. "Milltown should have something worthwhile."

Matt did not reply to this, but stared back at the torchlights of Brackwood Keep as the wagon caravan passed through the gateway and back out onto the road, into the deep dark of night. The blackness around them was held at bay only by the torches mounted on the wagons and in the hands of riders, as the gleaming fires of the gateway disappeared along with the motte.

VVVVV

The young prince was as smiling as ever, sitting on one of the higher benches in the Great Hall of the Marbled Tower. James Kleiner watched him suspiciously, waiting for some small change in the young lord's demeanor to give something away. But he was all smiles and sugar, at least in public.

The young Lord Alex Tanner had become the center of attention for every young woman and jealous man in the realm; at his young age, he had already received the lands belonging to the late Sophia Caullon, lands that he had no part of.

_He had not fought in the war. His father had done so…Andrew Tanner had been a respected warrior. _

Andrew Tanner had died trying to take Castle Caullon, back when Lady Caullon and her band of bloodthirsty brigands had tried to seize power and kill Lord Kastner. They had failed, and when Castle Caullon had fallen to the victorious armies, its fate lay undecided. Tanner's army, bloody and leaderless, had fought most of the battle, and it was only fair that the prize should go to Andrew Tanner, if he had been left alive. And thus, after a few years of needless deliberation and bickering, the stone keep passed on to Alex Tanner, a meddlesome and irritating kid nothing short of Edward Cullen.

"Quite a character, is he not?" Lord Diyas asked, smirking as he leaned over to Kleiner. "The young lad think's he runs the world."

"He'll learn soon enough that the world does _not _take kindly to people like him," Kleiner grit his teeth, watching the fledgling lord flirt with the more attractive serving ladies of the tower.

"Something in your voice tells me that you're slightly envious," Diyas spoke, his voice aged but still strong.

"Of his properties, perhaps. He did nothing to contribute to the siege of Castle Caullon."

"That was ten years ago, James—"

"Ten years does not heal old wounds like that," Kleiner hissed. "Four-thousand of Andrew Tanner's men died taking those stones, including him. And who possesses that castle now? Why only his inferior, rotten teenaged son. Does that hardly seem fair?"

"I never said it was fair, my lord," Diyas said defensively. "What happened, happened. I do not appreciate Lord Tanner either, but I will not actively attempt to take what has gone to him. Kastner will see fit that he loses his properties if he screws up."

"That's the problem. He's got the wits of an ape, and yet he's managed his lands perfectly, and even made an income… how can he succeed so?" Kleiner wondered.

"Luck, perhaps, my lord," Diyas suggested, drinking deeply from a goblet of wine. The feast continued around them, jovial and strident, and yet they sat there in their own bubble of solitude, talking to no one but each other.

"Luck won't carry you through six years," Kleiner said.

"No, it won't," the other lord admitted. "But it is not my job to wonder what other lords do. I've never thought him economically gifted, and yet he's amassed a fortune…"

"All the kid ever does is eat, drink, sleep, fuck, but he's never even touched a coin. How he's done it, remains beyond my understanding," Kleiner finally finished. "Enough of that, anyway. Let him screw himself over, see if I care. One less cancer upon this realm."

"I certainly hope nobody hears you speak like that. Tanner wouldn't appreciate hearing those words," Lord Diyas chuckled, stroking his short grey beard.

"Let him hear. Maybe he'll have the gall to face me in a duel."

At that moment, as Kleiner watched as some figure, unnoticed amongst the crowd, bent down to Lord Tanner and spoke into his ear. Kleiner could barely see, but he could make out what was going on; the figure spoke for only a few moments, and then vanished from the table, melting into the groups of serving girls and dancers once more.

"More wine, my lord?" one of the serving men asked, flourishing a massive vase of purple liquid.

Kleiner, grumbling, turned away from the spot where the mysterious man had disappeared, and lost himself in wine once more.

VVVVV

Matt felt uneasy, surrounded by darkness. Two torches were mounted on the wagon frame, true, and Royce carried a small brand in his hand, but Matt saw the darkness behind him, swallowing up the road. Perturbed, he tried to rest against a bale of fine lace and look away from the blackness behind him.

"I don't like this," the oldest driver muttered, the one in the wagon ahead of Matt. From the front of the caravan, Master Evans replied.

"Clyde's keeping an eye out—"

"We've got torches, we're asking for trouble," the driver complained. "We should never have left Brackwood Keep—"

"By morning we'll reach Carrer. Silence until then," Evans commanded.

"I don't like this," the driver complained again, and then fell silent as ordered.

The silence was nearly unbearable; Matt tried to relax, keeping his arm rested against one of the bales. Thousands of stars dotted the dark, swirly sky ahead, constellations that Matt did not recognize.

Something stirred in the tall grass around the road. Matt sat up quickly, and a brief flash of pain lanced like lightning up his broken arm. He fell back down onto the soft bale of lace, and turned to speak to Royce on the other side of the covered wagon.

"Royce? I saw something back there…"

"Aye, did you? Are you telling me ghost stories, or did you actually see something?"

As Royce asked his question, Matt saw another flash of movement, a blur almost, in the weeds.

"I saw something… twice, now."

Royce was apparently disturbed enough to call up to the caravan master.

"Hey, pull the caravan to a stop a moment. We might have a problem."

Before asking questions, Evans pulled his wagon to a halt, and the other two drivers stopped behind him. Tobbar and Clyde began to wheel their mounts around, searching for trouble.

"Whatcha got back there, Royce?"

"Matt said he saw something back behind us. I've got half a mind to believe him…"

"We might have some unwanted hangers-on," Tobbar suggested. "Perhaps we should turn them back…?"

At that moment, two dozen swords rasped from their blades collectively, and two dozen men stepped out of the long grass, blades raised. Tobbar and Royce didn't even have time to draw their own swords before steel was raised to their throats by armed and armored men.

Matt was terrified at first, as one the armed men leapt into the wagon and held a sword to him. But he only _held _the sword, leveling it at Matt's throat. He didn't wear any sort of ragged or tattered clothes; rather, the man wore heavy mail and a helmet with nosepiece, with some sort of emblem stitched to his chest. He wasn't a brigand or a Harvester, whoever he was.

"Well, well…late night travelers? What are we doing out here, all alone?" a clear, commanding voice rang out from the head of the column.

"Our business is our own…business," Evans answered, his voice vague from up front. The soldier holding his blade at Matt's neck did not move, but watched Matt closely; sweat rolling down his meaty forehead.

"You arouse suspicions, I'm sure you're aware," the commanding voice spoke. "Traveling out in the dead of night. Be glad we're not brigands, or worse. Let's round them up, and bring them in," the voice ordered.

"I'm sorry, but what authority gives you the right to bring us in?" Evans complained.

"We're under the authority of Lord Willum of Milltown. Escort them into town, and if they resist, kill them," the voice ordered. Evans argued no more; the man standing over Matt stepped down as the wagon began to move again, controlled by a new driver.

These men certainly weren't bandits, but they weren't friendly either.

The caravan continued on into the night, escorted by the armored men as dawn began to rise in the east.


	6. ApprehENDed

**Hello internet! It's been five days since the last update, but it feels much longer. Our cover shall be soon. Never fear :D The wonderful HPE24 is still working hard on it, so cheer her on!**

**And the title of this chapter is a callout to the wonderful FullMoonFlygon, and the way she used to title her own chapters. It's not hard to miss what I did :3**

**I have nothing else to say. NOTHING. ELSE. So review answers.**

**ANSWERS:**

**HPE24: Her pendant, now in his hands. Since we don't know the ending of TMD (you know what to do, FullMoonFlygon), a lot of things are still up in the air. So maybe the pendant gets more powerful. We'll see.**

**EclipseWolf64: Aww, thank you! Happy to make a day :D**

**Woohooman14: Well happy birthday to you, good sir!**

**TerrarianCreeper: Leon will appear within…five chapters. That much I can promise. And Darius Loyhrs and Darius Cymander are two different people. One's a revolver-toting badass, the other really likes the color blue.**

**SuperFirecat: Temps are always better. Logging out, respawn…two things you **_**really **_**want.**

**VVVVV**

Bryan Kenly watched his advisor approach, striding down the dark hall of obsidian that made up the Black Haven, the great obsidian fortress that towered over the nearby Black River.

Kenly's defeat had left him shaken and unnerved; with Thompson now in command of the ruins of Delphos, morale had dipped in his own camp. Many of Kenly's permanents, good knights and bannermen, had been slain in the sneak attack several days back, irreplaceable elite soldiers. Many of Thompson's casualties were temporaries, and they would've respawned by now. The only thing keeping the enemy from attacking the walls of the Black Haven were those walls of stark obsidian.

_These parapets cannot be broken by their weapons. We can nurse our wounds in safety here_.

Kenly himself had suffered a blow to morale with his defeat. In decades, he had never been defeated by Thompson, his opponent for control of the ruins of the old city of Delphos. Thompson's army had always been a rabble, a conglomeration of peasants, hunting archers and pikemen cobbled together into a lousy fighting force. The problem was, almost all of them were temporaries; death was only a temporary obstacle, and respawn was inevitable. Kenly's men were almost all the opposite, but they were well-trained and skilled in the art of sword and fire. Few of them ever died.

But this last battle had been different…the sneak attack had taken Kenly off guard, and he had paid for it with the blood of three thousand irreplaceable soldiers.

_Some of my best knights…dead and gone forever. My numbers are depleted now._

"My lord, tidings are grave from the ruins of Delphos…"

"What news do you bring me now?" Kenly asked lazily, leaning back in his obsidian throne. Everything in the Haven was made of the strong black rock; pillars, walls, floors, ceilings, thrones, bathtubs, even chandeliers. Everything was dark—but this made the Haven strong, and impenetrable.

"The Tribes of the Pass gather to Thompson's banners. More of them, every day…my eyes see, and I report," the advisor spoke.

This advisor was quite a curious character, having come to Kenly only in recent weeks prior to the great battle. The man wore a hood all of the time; he was never questioned about it anymore; it was just accepted as fact. He never showed his face to anyone, not even Lord Kenly; a strange air of mystery surrounded him. But he had entered the court seeking to assist Lord Kenly, and he had proven himself by offering clever and useful advice concerning defense measures and reconnaissance. Certainly, he hadn't said anything about the surprise attack, but even he wasn't psychic…

"Were the tribes not fighting against us ever since the Great Battle?" one of Kenly's other advisors raised the question. He had been shuffled off to the side of the great hall, along with the other lesser advisors. The only man Kenly treasured more was Baric Dorrigan, his chief general and closest advisor. The hooded spy was only second.

"Were they reported to be fighting against us?" the hooded man asked, turning towards the man who had spoken up against him. Kenly could not see the face beneath that dark black hood, but he was sure it was smirking.

"I do believe that the Great Battle was lost because of them," the advisor replied, grudgingly.

"The reports of panicked men cannot be believed. Panic clouds the truth," the hooded man replied, chuckling to himself. "But it is certain now. They are against us, fighting for Thompson."

"That's a vast host allayed against us," Dorrigan spoke from his obsidian chair beside the larger throne. "At least ten thousand warriors."

"General Dorrigan speaks…truly," the hooded advisor declared, with a hint of distaste in his voice. "The enemy now greatly outnumbers us. Although the tribesmen are all permanent, they have a massive force. Not to be taken lightly."

"My advisors tell me the same damn things. This is not _news_, this is only more evidence that we are now outnumbered," Kenly gnashed his teeth. "What _news _do you bring me, then? What tidings? What you brought me were _not _tidings."

"But you have not heard all I have to say," the hooded man snickered. He bowed slightly, to keep his face concealed beneath that damned hood of his. He was dressed in an entire suit of warm furs and riding clothes, complete with heavy leather books and mail leggings.

"Then speak, damnit!" Kenly barked, his accent minced by his harsh words. Normally his voice was crisp and clear, bearing the accent of any British man. But when he became angry, his accent was not as clear. It was one of his traits.

"There is a man…someone new, a stranger," the hooded man spoke, not a hint of fear or any emotion in his voice, other than that of a wormy sort of appeasement, as if he were trying to placate Lord Kenly. "He is not from these lands—"

"What do you mean, not from these lands?" Kenly asked, now thoroughly intrigued. He had been slouching over in his jet black throne, but now he sat up straight, like a proper lord.

"From the other side of the world…the west, my lord," the hooded advisor spoke, and he was certainly smirking once more. He was quite wormy—always trying to appease everyone, slithery like a snake.

"From the west? The NMR, you mean?"

"Yes, my lord. A man from the NMR…he dresses like one of them. He dresses like one from Earth…"

The hall stirred at this news; now _those _were tidings, unforeseen and unimaginable.

"Foreigners do not come here often, my lord," one of the lesser advisors spoke up from the side of the dark obsidian hall. "I find this hard to believe."

"I as well," another piped up. "This faceless snake is feeding us lies!"

"That is quite an accusation," Kenly announced, now fully alert. "It is hard to imagine that someone would travel so far and end up in a warzone like this…but entirely possible."

"My lord…that would be crazy," Corrigan spoke up from beside the throne. "Nobody has traveled from the NMR in…well, decades."

"Crazy, yes," Kenly replied. "But most certainly possible." He stood up from the throne, towering on the dais above all of the advisors, guards and hangers-on. "I trust him well enough to believe that this information is credible."

That stirred the assembly in the hall up even more; one of the advisors, the boldest of the small group of lordlings, even dared to step up to the Black Throne and speak to Kenly's face.

"My lord, this man is a fraud—"

"Pray tell me how he is, Lord Worchester. Go on, now," Kenly shot back, as a din began to arise in the hall around the throne.

"He hides behind a mask, a coward!" the advisor accused, pointing back to the hooded stranger as the hall erupted into a fierce verbal argument. "A brave and righteous man would show his face!"

"I never realized I was a brave and righteous man," the stranger hissed slyly. "I only live to serve my Lord Kenly…and I do what it takes to serve him." Even though he spoke quietly, his voice could be heard above the hundred others in the room.

"Lord Worchester, step down," Kenly ordered, obviously irritated by the din in the hall. He motioned to his faithful advisor, the hooded man, and beckoned him and General Corrigan to follow.

"See if you can contain this rabble, Lord Worchester. I will be retiring now, whether you want me to or not," Kenly spoke, and before the young lord could respond, he had left the hall and its argument behind.

The noise could not permeate the heavy walls of the Back Chamber, where Lord Kenly slept and planned and ate and shat. He lived in that chamber, when he was not out in the field, traveling, or sitting upon his throne. This was his room; he stood over the massive map of Minecraftia, unfolded upon a huge obsidian table in the middle of the room.

The Black Haven was thousands of years old—it dated back to the time of the Fall of the great cities, when mobs overran humankind and three heroes struggled to restore balance. The obsidian hadn't changed in all of those centuries; it stayed still, not degrading or wearing down, thick and powerful and resilient to any kind of attack. That was why Bryan Kenly had chosen to establish his dominion there—if Thompson's rabble of an army wanted to get him, they knew where to find him.

The Black Haven could never fall. The black stone would not yield to fire or rock or explosive. It would take a mighty power to bring its parapets down.

"My lord, I fear that your advisors—"

"I spit upon my advisors. What are they but a crew of cowardly lickspittles and cocksure boys?" Kenly sneered, tossing his dirk and scabbard aside and removing the mail he wore customarily. "They are nothing to me. You two are my closest advisors, and I trust you more than any of that…rabble."

"My lord, I am honored beyond words—"

"Save it," Kenly replied, and the hooded man was silent. "Don't start kissing my arse, or I may reconsider."

"I beg your lordship's pardon."

"You might hide behind a hood of cloth and stay silent, but you have never failed to bring me what I require before. That is why I called both of you in here. There are things I need to be done."

There were many things Bryan Kenly needed to be done; the defeat had shattered any hope of holding Delphos, and his troops' morale had slackened as a result. None had deserted, as of yet—but if there were no victories or achievements anytime soon, the tide might turn. So far, Thompson's men were holding.

"General Corrigan. My first requirement is for you—I need you back out in the field," Kenly ordered, turning to his most trusted commander.

"Back…out in the field, my lord?"

"Leading the troops once more," Kenly added.

"My lord…the men are not up for another battle," Corrigan replied, almost in complete disbelief. "They were shattered the last time…it would be wiser to remain behind the palisade line—"

"That is what I intend to do," Kenly replied, somewhat irritated now. "I did not intend to fight Thompson in a pitched battle again. Not _yet_."

"Hold them at the defensive line and raise morale. Of course, my lord—"

"You are dismissed, General," Kenly discharged him, and with due haste Corrigan bowed briefly and hustled out of the room, back out into the main hall. Now only Kenly and his spy remained.

"You have been gone for quite some time," Kenly spoke after a few moments of precious silence. "Two weeks, almost."

"Gathering information takes much time, my lord—"

"Two weeks and you return to me with very little. It is something, but I expected more," Kenly returned. "What do you know of this man?

"I know nothing about him, my Lord Kenly," the serpentine emissary reported, shifting nervously. "Only that he exists."

"It took you two weeks to figure out that a man _exists_, hunh?" Kenly continued to query, seemingly not the slightest bit angry.

"Infiltrating Lord Thompson's camp was…difficult, most difficult—"

"Then I'm sure you'll be able to do it again," Kenly spoke, now facing his advisor. "Go back into that camp, stay low, and find out _everything _you can on this man you speak of. And I do mean _everything_."

"Of course, my lord…I live to serve you—"

"Then prove it to me," Kenly barked, weary of the hood's slithery attitude. "I don't care how long you take, just tell me everything. The more I know about my enemy, the better."

VVVVV

Matt was surrounded on all sides by strange men, armed men who were "escorting" the caravan into Milltown. So far, they had not proven themselves to be bandits or thieves; they wore Lord Willum's colors and insignia upon their sleeves, and they were better armed and armored than common thugs.

But Matt still had no reason to trust them—they were not friendly, nor hostile. They were simply doing a job they were assigned to do, for whatever reason Lord Willum had seen fit.

As they crossed the next hill, Matt sat up and could see Milltown spreading out by the river. _ This _was the Delphos River, the largest body of flowing water in _MINECRAFT_. It was nearly a mile and a half wide, a massive body of dark, emerald liquid mostly hidden by the darkness of the night. The moon peered out from the clouds above, however, and cast a faint glow upon the shimmering surface of the stream.

The town itself spread out along the western bank, a large semi-city with tall wooden walls and hundreds of buildings. Most prominent amongst its structures were the dozen or so mills lined up along the bank of the river, working even at this time of night.

"The mills never sleep," Royce commented, riding unarmed alongside the wagon. "Even at night, they operate. The millers are dutiful."

"They stay up all night?"

"They work shifts and provide much of the food for the lands between here and New Connaught. The farmers in safe areas provide the wheat, and Milltown provides the bread. It's a massive business," Royce explained. Matt accepted it as fact; he was still confused, and his arm was beginning to throb restlessly.

They had been traveling for nearly four days now, making a fast pace. The captain of the patrol had explained that they were traveling back north, from the Brackwood, towards Lord Willum's keep when they spotted the caravan out on the road. The soldiers had hidden in ambush, and upon seeing that the caravan was friendly had offered to escort it to Milltown, which was where they were headed anyway.

"We share the same destination. We'd be happy to oblige you and keep you safe—I'm sure your employer would also pay a hefty price for your safe return," the captain had said on the first night, riding alongside Evans' wagon. Matt could hear everything they said; the caravan train was small, and he could hear any conversation at any given time. There was no real privacy out on the road.

It was another half hour before the group even approached the main bridge, a massive stone and wooden structure that crossed the wide river into the town of Milltown, on the opposite side. A single gate stood guard over the crossing, surrounded by a deep but skinny moat filled with brownish, dirty water. The gate was wood bolted with iron, within a tall cobblestone gatehouse with two cobblestone towers, each with arrow slits and the colors of Lord Willum hanging, dead still, over the parapets.

"Someone open the goddamned door! Tell the keeper Captain Wathers is back!" the captain of the escort, a clear-voiced and commanding man, barked to nobody in particular. The starry night was still for a few moments before a small window above the gate opened and a figure stuck its head out.

"You're mighty late for coming in, Captain—"

"Midnight, noon, it doesn't matter! Now open the goddamned gate!" Wathers barked again, angrier this time. He stood directly beneath the gatehouse's murder holes, small slits in the stonework that channeled up to the parapets and allowed defenders to dump boiling pitch onto attackers at the gate.

"Alright, let me get the key keeper…just give me a moment…"

The shutter over the small window closed once more, and the night was quiet again. The battalion of soldiers and the group of wagons stood, waiting, right before the heavy gate, standing on a wooden drawbridge over the watery moat.

Before too long, there was a groan and a shuddering creak, and the giant oaken door began to part, cleaving in two as the halves were drawn away and the way forward revealed itself.

"Took his good time," the captain muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear as he spurred his horse onward through the gate. The rest of the escort followed, sidling in besides the wagons as they rolled on into the town.

"My Lord Willum requests your presence, Captain," one of the gruff, gray-bearded watchmen spoke as the armored men entered the town.

"Does he wish to see me now?" Wathers asked, wheeling his horse about to face the man as Matt's wagon rolled past.

"Immediately, sir."

"Can it wait until morning?"

"Lord Willum requests your presence. He wanted you as soon as you arrived," the watchman replied as the gates began to groan once more, shutting behind the last horseman.

The captain cursed under his breath, turned his mount away, and rode back up to Master Evans, who was waiting inside the gatehouse yard along with the rest of the party.

"You're back on your own, caravaneers," Captain Wathers spoke, rather harshly as he faced the master. "Find an inn, get some rest, leave the city, I don't care. My business with you is done."

He paid no heed to any rebuttals or arguments, but turned around and summoned his men to follow him, riding off to the west down the massive bridge that led into the town proper. The armored escort followed him, riding off, and soon the caravan was left alone once more.

"Find an inn. I can agree with that," Royce chortled, wheeling his horse to face Tobbar behind him. "A nice mug of ale, a hot chicken leg, eh?"

"Anything to eat or drink besides mushroom stew and watered brew," Tobbar grumbled, shoulders hunched. "And a warm bed, I could go for that."

"One night only. We're back on the road tomorrow at dawn," Evans replied, but his order was met with no argument. The men were simply glad to have a safe, warm place to sleep and a good meal.

They crossed the mighty stone bridge, as wide as the river. They passed the massive wooden mills, churning the water with a deafening roar and slicing through the shimmering fluid like liquid butter, never stopping so long as the Delphos River flowed.

They passed granaries, dozens of them, full to the brim with wheat and other grains ready to be milled. They also passed bakeries, storage sheds, all devoted to the fine, agrarian art of milling and baking loaves of bread.

They passed hundreds of houses nestled in twisted, crooked rows along twisted, crooked cobblestone streets, all intersecting and crossing throughout the city of tens of thousands of people.

And finally, they came upon a dingy, dirty inn. The small wooden building was constructed from a mishmash of different wooden planks—oak, birch, pine, even a few mahogany trees from distant jungles smashed in—and the doors were painted an ugly shade of dark brown, which was beginning to peel off. Smoke rose from a dozen chimneys, obscuring the lustrous sphere of the moon.

"Could be a hole in the ground for all I care. Looks like there's a hot meal just waiting in there," Royce grinned, staring up at the chipped and peeling wooden sign swinging above the double doors.

"We'd better get our rooms, then, if we want any sleep at all," Evans announced, and led his convoy into a back alley, back towards the inn's stables.

The lone stable boy was woken by the sounds of hooves on the cobblestones and the jarring rumbling of the wagon wheels. There was hardly any space in the stables for the horses, let alone the wagons. The three carriages had to be squashed into a tight corner of the stable square, and the horses had to share pens with one another.

There were only three people awake when the small party entered the inn—the barkeep, a serving girl, and a quiet man smoking a pipe in one of the booths, sitting before a cold bowl of stew.

"How many?" the barkeep asked grudgingly, as the men entered behind Matt.

"Six of us. You got that many rooms?" Evans asked pleasantly.

"Half of that," the barkeep snorted, wiping a mug of ale clean. "You can share rooms. I'm not wont to halve the price, though."

"Fair enough," Evans begrudged him. "We'll take the rooms and any food you've got—"

"Food's not cooking anymore. You'll have to wait until breakfast," the barkeep retorted, almost completely ignoring them.

Evans did not reply to this, but simply muttered an oath under his breath and slapped silver down upon the counter, which the barkeep happily received and deposited into his apron.

"Cherry, get them rooms. Any will do," the keep ordered, and the lone serving wench, a young black woman with curly hair and pointed chin, arrived to escort them up to the open rooms.

As Matt followed Tobbar up a creaky set of stairs, he stole one last look back at the other man in the room. That man did look familiar, especially that eyepatch…but Matt wasn't quite sure. He shrugged it off as sheer coincidence or just bad eyesight, and continued on up to his beds.

He was to sleep in the same room with Royce; the lodgings were tight, small, dingy, and smelled of stale sweat and tobacco, mixed with even less inviting scents. Two moth-eaten mattresses were presented on creaky wooden frames, with tubs of cool water at the foot and a single nightstand inbetween them.

"Fancy this. A _warm_ bed," Royce chuckled sarcastically. "Well, it beats sleeping out under the stars."

"I liked the outside better…this place smells like shit," Matt complained, grimacing as a particularly nasty smell hit him.

"A lot of places smell like that. You get used to it."

Matt chose the bed by the tiny glass pane of a window, the one that overlooked several of the massive stone mills on the river's banks. The mattress was quite uncomfortable and lumpy in at least a dozen places. Packed earth was much better…

"I'd say get as much rest as you can. We'll be departing early in the morning," Royce reminded him.

"I know, I know…at the crack of dawn—"

"So make yourself comfortable. We'll be on the road for a while."

That was the last Royce spoke for the night; he lay down on the other mattress, and began to snore almost immediately after removing his belt and scabbard. He slept in his armor and tabard; Matt wondered how the sellsword caught any sleep at all.

He found the bed incredibly poor for any kind of rest; it felt like sitting on a bank of gravel almost. The covers were all moth-eaten and moldy, and they barely covered his teenage body.

He rolled over to face the window, to watch thin pillars of smoke waft into the air and disappear into the milky soup of stars floating above like a thousand tiny lanterns suspended in the black void of space, gleaming down like miniscule beacons to provide some little light to the weary traveler.

It wasn't long before he began to fall asleep, lulled into a restless semi-slumber by the calm of the night outside the window and the silence of the lodging.

The silence didn't keep too long.

Matt's eyes had just fell shut, falling into the sleep of death, when the door to the room burst open and rough hands rolled him away from the window and turned him to face an armored man bearing the colors of Lord Willum—he recognized that insignia.

"Wake up, sweetheart," the soldier joked, his breath rank with ale. "We're going for a little ride, eh?"

Matt was too confused to resist; he had just been shaken out of sleep, and he blinked rapidly to bring the situation into focus. He could hear Royce struggling, and heard the nasty crunch as a mail-gauntleted fist slammed into soft flesh.

"Try not to bust him up too bad. If he struggles, use as much force as you'd like," a familiar voice spoke from the doorway.

"Take his sword, too, relieve him of his weapon," another voice ordered. There were more scuffles from further down the hall, shouts and crashes and grunts.

Matt was hauled up from the bed to face the captain of the escort that had brought them to Milltown, in full armor and arms.

"Remember me, kid? Eh, I bet you do. Lord Willum took particular interest in you, and I wondered why," the captain spoke, smiling as Matt was held before him by two guardsmen. "Search his pockets."

"What the hell…do you want with me—"

"Lady Lanos was quite distressed when she sent that message. It arrived just before we did—and Lord Willum received it. Apparently you have something that belongs to her…and left before she could realize it was gone…"

_The pendant_, Matt knew, as one of the guardsmen reached into his left pocket and rummaged around. _They know I have the pendant…but I didn't take it from her! I found it!_

"I know what you're looking for, I didn't take—"

"Found it, captain," one of the men announced, rummaging through Matt's other pocket as the latter desperately tried to explain.

"Well, looks like Lady Lanos was right. And to think, I ordered my men to protect you…"

"It's not what it seems! I didn't steal the damned pendant!" Matt cried, struggling.

"You lie through your teeth, boy. Give me the necklace," the captain ordered, and one of the men handed the shining pendant over.

"Lady Lanos will pay highly for this. And to think, I could've taken that thing days ago…"

The two men manhandled Matt out into the hallway, followed by a kicking and grunting Royce.

As Matt returned to the hallway, he saw the other caravaneers being hauled out of their rooms by Willum's troops, and saw the man with the eyepatch, standing right outside.

That was the same man who had been in the common room of the inn…_and at Brackwood Keep_, Matt remembered. That man had been standing directly behind him when Matt had pulled out the pendant briefly. Had he actually seen?

"Will you be traveling with us?" the captain asked the man with the eyepatch, hustling the prisoners down towards the stairs.

"It's my job to keep him in my sight. I will be traveling with you, if not grudgingly," the reply came.

"Better keep that revolver handy, cowboy," the captain snorted in retort. "We might need it, especially if we're departing now—"

Only then did Matt notice the revolver and holster at the man's belt, hidden partially beneath a riding cloak.

_Firearms and modern technology are illegal…why does this guy have a gun, then? Shouldn't he have been found out by now?_

Firearms were indeed illegal in Minecraftia, as Matt was very well aware—however, this man was carrying his weapon in plain sight, and every single one of the soldiers were able to see it.

_Who the hell is this guy? He's certainly not some one-eyed drunk…_

"It might save your life one of these days. We'd better get moving, it's a long way back to the Brackwood."

As several of the soldiers complained about just arriving from there, Matt was hauled down the stairs and back into the empty common room. He felt sleep trying to overtake him again, but rough hands forced him awake every time he felt his eyes droop.

He was going back to face death, or worse. Back to face the wrath of the woman whose pendant he possessed.


	7. A Midnight Harvest

The road felt familiar; only a few hours ago, Matt had been riding down the dirt pathway, towards the city of Milltown. Now, he was being "escorted" back to Brackwood Keep by men who had sworn an oath to Lord Willum of Milltown, as well as another more mysterious man armed with an _illegal _revolver.

The biggest question that he faced was why he hadn't tried to resist; if something like this had happened back at home, or at his old school, he would have fought and argued, especially if they were teachers or his parents. Matt had always had a fiery temper, a strong attitude against people who stood in his way—he could deal with employers, certainly. But teachers and parents, figures of authority, had always been despised.

Yet Matt could not find his fighting spirit tonight—even when his safety, or even his life depended on getting free of this trap he had fallen into. He had _not _stolen the pendant that supposedly belonged to Lady Elena Lanos—he had found it washed up on a stony riverbank, far from Lady Lanos' home. It would've been right to hand it back to her at the feast, but Matt had failed to do that…

And now they were making good time back to Brackwood Keep, a four-day journey. The promise of a healer or splint for his arm was now beginning to fade away, Matt realized; originally, his arm—broken during the attack on his home village—was to be fixed by a healer in the town of Mauvrim, but that hamlet had ended the same way as his had. He had planned to seek out some aid in Milltown, but that promise had been broken as well; he was going to face the justice of Elena Lanos now, with the pendant safely in the hands of the one-eyed man.

"How are the prize horses?" the Regulator inquired of one of the guardsmen.

"Erka's quiet. Divonna's been nervous, but I'm keeping her under rein," was the reply.

"Make sure they stay safe and clean. They'll be worth quite a bit of money."

"That bastard's a Regulator. I knew something was up about the way he dressed," Clyde commented, watching the rider from the corner of his eye. They were stashed away in one of the wagons, under the close eye of a guardsman riding alongside the vehicle. The caravan's horses had been confiscated by Willum's swordsmen, and were now being led by one of the squires to the escort's captain. Apparently the escort was also bringing horses along with them to sell, including two very expensive noble steeds.

"Regulator?"

"They hunt down advanced technology and repossess it…anything modern, they'll find it and take it. And often they'll take your head too, if you're not careful," Clyde explained, watching the brown-cloaked Regulator.

"That's why he carries a gun," Matt stated dryly, glancing at the holster attached to his right hip, bouncing as he rode.

"They're allowed to. If _you_ carry one, you pretty much dig your own grave. They find you, no matter where you hide…"

Matt knew little about the Regulators, other than what Clyde had just told him; the word sounded familiar-he may have heard it from the mouth of another before-but the only thing that seemed to separate this "Regulator" from the other guardsmen was the heat he was packing.

"You didn't actually steal the pendant, did you?" Clyde asked quietly, so that none of the riders could hear him.

"No, I didn't steal it-"

"Can you prove that you didn't?"

Matt was momentarily stumped; he stuttered briefly, and then answered "No, I guess I cannot..."

"Well, better hope you can pull something out. They already assume you're guilty."

They rode on in silence, nearly fifty men riding through the night, their faces and bodies lit only by a dozen or so torches scattered throughout the group and mounted on the frames of individual wagons.

"We should've stayed in town for the night. I don't like this," Clyde spoke, to nobody in particular.

"We've been riding every night for four days. What makes this different?" Matt asked.

"It feels...strange. Can't you feel that?"

"I...I guess," Matt replied, now glancing all around him. Something _did _feel odd about this whole situation...as if more men made them a larger target. They would certainly attract more attention, especially unwanted attention.

"Quiet in there," one of the guards hissed, and Clyde and Matt fell silent again.

It had to be nearly midnight now-they had arrived at Milltown about an hour after sundown-and the night was growing cool, almost a bit chilly. Matt tried to peer out of the wagon, get a glimpse of the stars spilling across the void of the sky, but they were diminished by the light flickering from the torch fires. Tall grass, nearly four feet tall, obscured much of the horizon on both sides of the road, and whispered along with the soft wind.

A soft breeze rolled along the road, whispering through the hides covering the wagon and through the flames, chilling Matt briefly. The wind came at the perfect time-just in time to mask the sound of the twang of a dozen distant bowstrings, and the flight of a dozen sharp arrows through the crisp night air.

Only half of those arrows ended up hitting their targets. Several of the guardsmen toppled out of their horses, injured or slain by the sharp missiles. Another few seconds passed, and then from out of the tall grass surrounding the road dozens of shapes leapt forth, shadows wielding wicked weapons and massive spears, shrieking and raging like demons as they pounced on their mounted, armored prey.

The wagon stopped moving as an arrow plunged into the driver's exposed head and he fell off of his perch, collapsing beneath the frame below and plummeting into the dirt. All around the caravan, riders drew blades and spears and began to defend themselves, as dozens of brigands leapt out of the grass to attack.

_Not brigands...Harvesters_, Matt realized as he saw the masks, illuminated by torchlight. Clown masks, ritual masks, any kind of cover they could find-they wore anything, even hockey masks, and fought with the fury of wild beasts, whirling about and slashing at anything within range.

The escort had been taken off guard, ambushed by the Harvesters. They wheeled around to face their foes, breaking off from the main body to attack groups of the wild raiders. The training and experience of Lord Willum's forces would have paid off, if not for the sheer number of Harvesters and the upper hand given to them by their surprise attack. Arrows embedded themselves into wood, cloth, flesh and armor as they sung through the air and landed in the column, coming from the plains surrounding the road. Armed men fought and died all around the wagon, dancing in combat or smashing brutally up against one another, or rolling around on the ground and fighting in the most barbaric of manner.

"Matt, sword!" Clyde roared over the battle, and Matt felt a heavy object crash into his chest. He picked up the blade, fumbling with the weapon as he tried to grasp it. The wagon was shaking now, as men smashed into the side of it in their fighting. Torches were blowing out or being taken elsewhere; darkness had begun to claim the caravan, as more Harvesters rushed in for their bloody business.

"What am I supposed to do-"

"I dunno, kill the bastards!" Clyde yelled angrily, leaping out of the wagon and down into the maelstrom outside. The guards had not bothered to bind any of them; they were apparently trustworthy enough to keep unbound-either that, or the captain had decided he had enough men to keep them in line.

Matt followed him, or attempted to, falling over the side of the wagon and landing hard on wet, packed earth. Boots landed all around him, one of them landing on his leg and driving pain up his shin. Men fought above him; Matt was forced to roll away from the wagon and try to get back up on his feet.

In the clutter and confusion, he remembered the pendant.

_The captain still has it...I need to get it!_

Some seductive voice was calling to him, driving him to extreme measures to retrieve the beautiful piece. He had to find that pendant...it would be lost if he could not take it back.

He scrambled up to a standing position as one of the Harvesters fell dead beside him, impaled by a spear. The guardsman paid Matt no heed, as another Harvester attacked and occupied him.

None of the Milltown soldiers noticed Matt as he dashed away from the wagon, making his way up the road and through combat. Horses danced around the wagons, their riders hacking down at shadowy figures below or being pulled down from their mounts to be slaughtered by the bloodthirsty raiders.

Matt dodged a thrust from a spear, coming out of the gloom, and wove through horses and men, in a desperate attempt to get to the front of the column. Someone tugged on his shirt as he ran, but their grip was loose and he easily shrugged it off, stumbling slightly but continuing to dash forward through sprays of mud and blood. Two beautiful horses, the ones named Divonna and Erka, had broken away from their masters and trampled through Harvesters, running away in their wild flight and crushing the brigands beneath their hooves.

At the head of the column, several riders who had attempted to break free and ride off were now surrounded by Harvesters armed with spears. In the middle of their group the lone Regulator sat on his horse, firing his revolver at any hostile. They would be overrun eventually-the brown-cloaked Regulator had only enough ammo to kill a handful of enemies before he was overtaken...

Matt found the captain lying beside the first wagon, bloody and dying. The lifeless, bloody body of Tobbar lay almost directly beside him, facedown in the dark mud of the road.

In the captain's hand sat the pendant, gleaming even in the darkness of the night. Matt saw the dying man stir, and reached down for the necklace, grasping the silver chain in his hand.

"No...don't take...the pendant...goddamn you-" the captain spat, his eyes full of fire but his breath wasted. His left arm was bent at an unholy angle; the other was jammed under the wagon's wheel. There was nothing he could do to stop Matt.

"I'm sorry-"

"No you're...not," the captain gasped, struggling to free himself. Matt, his mind ensnared somehow by the pendant, took the trinket for his own, stashing it in his pocket just as some heavy body rushed into him from behind and took him off the road.

Matt felt a heavy sense of deja vu as, pendant safely stowed away, he rolled off the road and down a rough incline through weeds and massive clumps of grass, as more gunshots roared in the air and steel clashed on steel once more.

They finally came to a stop, and as Matt pulled out his sword to fight, he realized that it was Royce who had taken him down.

"What the hell are you-"

"Getting us _both _out of there, that's what I'm doing," Royce growled, hauling Matt to his feet. "While they're distracted."

"Shouldn't we do something? We can't just let them die-"

"Bugger them," Royce replied, drawing his own sword as the weeds on the hill began to swish and move. "They'd never do us the same favor. Let them all die."

A lone Harvester burst out of the tall grass, brandishing a longsword and wearing a mask of another man's face. He had somehow noticed the two attempt to escape earlier-either that, or he had come down of his own accord, just on a whim. Either way, he was up for a fight.

"Brandish that steel, Matt," Royce warned. "We outnumber him-"

The Harvester laughed cruelly, a throaty and rough laugh somewhat muffled by the fleshy mask he wore. He swung his weapon wildly, slashing and hacking at Matt with the strength of a brutish creature. Every swing meant another wild laugh, a hiss, a choking sound or a roar, the sounds a deranged madman would make. Matt was nimble enough to dodge or step aside each time the wild warrior attacked-Royce attempted to make his move, but the Harvester was quick enough to parry or dodge his attacks.

"Kill him, for fucks' sake!" Royce grunted as he narrowly side-stepped a strike by the Harvester. Ironically, Matt never meant to kill the man; he only wanted to disable his enemy, and allow him to either flee or surrender. But his swing was too far to the left; instead of knocking the sword out of the raider's hand, he took the entire hand that had attempted to stab Royce. As the swing continued, it sliced across the man's leg, cutting a deep gash into the soft tissue.

The raider's blade fell to the ground along with him; he collapsed to his knees, staring dully at the gleaming, bleeding stump of his arm. Now that he was no longer shrieking like a wild beast, swinging his weapon, he looked more like a man. Matt could almost hear him whimpering as he began to shake and sputter, clutching his injured arm so tightly that he drew blood with his nails.

"Finish him," Royce urged, standing to the side. "He's your kill. That's the way it works."

"I didn't mean to take his hand off-"

"_Finish him off_," Royce urged again, more urgently this time. "If you wound him, you kill him. Do it..."

Emotions roiled like a turbulent ocean inside of Matt. He felt the anger pent up inside of him rise once more-anger against his hardline conservative of a father, anger against his snobbish Singaporean socialite of a mother, angry against his teachers and his principal, against everyone who had wronged him, against the Harvesters...

"KILL HIM!"

Matt brought the blade up and brought it down without a word, putting all of his malice into the swing. The steel cut through flesh and bone, hacking his enemy apart and slaying him in a single stroke. Up on the ridge, the battle still raged, the caravan now beset with dozens of raiders, swarming over the outnumbered guardsmen...

"Bugger all of them," Royce muttered again, blood pooling around his boots. "Let's get out of here-"

"What about the others?" Matt asked, glancing back up at the wagons.

"I don't think they're breathing now, Matt. We were lucky enough to escape alive," Royce said.

"We can't just leave them-"

"Go back if you want. I'm leaving before those crazy bastards find me," Royce spat on the body of the Harvester, and began to shuffle off through the weeds, as the battle above began to die down.

Matt was torn between returning to find his companions and follow Royce, who was quickly disappearing into the field of grass. The sounds of battle were dying down; Matt did not know who had won, but neither side would be of any assistance to him. He had a good blade in one hand, and Lady Lanos' stolen pendant in the other. There was only one way to go now...

As the fighting died down, and the cries of the wounded and dying faded away or were cut off harshly, Matt rushed off after Royce, disappearing as the Harvesters began to search for them...

VVVVV

The mercenary named Dominic had lived amongst the primitives for days now, and by now he was at least accepting of their practices, if not quite used to the crude conditions and poor hygiene of Brad Thompson's camp.

"Your boss told me that he'd be sending reinforcements. What might this entail?" Thompson himself asked, standing watch from his command tent over the entire army. Eighteen thousand soldiers and ten thousand hill tribesmen, all assembled outside of the ruins of the old city of Delphos. Dom had heard tales of Delphos before; a bustling pre-Disaster city, with an airport and a grand hospital and everything modern society gave to the public. And then the Disaster occurred; and with it, the destruction of Delphos by war, plague, and natural phenomenon.

"He did not say," Dom replied quietly, watching the tiny figures of men swarm around the tent field below. In the distance, the stark towers of the Black Haven rose out of the eastern forests. Bryan Kenly waited in there...waiting for Thompson to make a move-any move.

"I would assume he's sending more of your kind."

"My kind?"

"Your military. The ones with the banned weapons," Thompson answered, standing over a strategic map in the center of his tent.

"He didn't say," Dom spoke again, deining to watch the early morning commotion down amongst the common soldiers. There were thousands of them, all eating, drinking, washing, shitting, pissing, bathing and working in a common camp. The entire tent field smelled horrible; latrine pits, rotting food and animals all contributed to the ghastly smell. Dom had started to become used to it, however.

"The Black Haven...how familiar are you with it?" Thompson asked, beckoning Dom inside. Ever since his employer had delivered both the mercenary and heaps of cash to Brad Thompson, the brutish lord had been rather warm to Dom.

"Old children's stories, speaking of a great hero who made his home there," Dom replied, stepping into the tent. "Delta824-"

"Children's stories, yes, and nothing more. What remains after the legend dies is fact, and the Black Haven is cold, solid, obsidian fact. There's nothing we have to breach that fortress."

"There must be some way..."

"No siege engine can bring that Haven down," Thompson protested, slamming his fist at the spot on the map where the obsidian fortress sat. "It lies between two rivers, both of which Kenly guard. I cannot starve him out...victory seemed so close a few days ago."

"And now you face a lengthy siege," Dom finished.

"One that neither of us seem capable of winning," Thompson added. He sat down on one of the chairs surrounding the table. He had no underlings or lords to do his duties; he had commanders, but they were down in the tent city minding their own squads and units. The only thing he had close to an advisor was the foreigner Dom, a hired gun from one of the NMR cities.

"I will have need of you soon, Dom. There is something I can entrust only to you," Thompson spoke after a long silence. The only other men in the tent were two silver-armored guardsmen.

"Only...I can accomplish, is that what you mean?"

"Yes-I have quite a bit of faith in you. For a mercenary, that is."

Dom bit his tongue-he never liked that word, but it was especially worse when used in such a demeaning fashion-but he said nothing.

"I need you to get these men under your command. Bring the captains and sergeants to your side, make them love you. Become their commander, and my second-in-command," Thompson announced.

"Your...second-in-command?"

"No longer my advisor. My general."

"Sir...I have no leadership experience, I cannot do so-"

"Come now, Dom," Thompson appealed to him. "Half of these so-called captains can't lead a chicken to feed, much less men to war. I need someone with your charisma, and your...power, to say the least."

Dom knew what the high lord meant by "power". As a stranger from the NMR, a foreigner from a land where technology reigned, he was seen as a saint by some, and a god by many, especially those who had grown up in these lands and had never seen a wristwatch or a handgun or a microwave. They revered him as some sort of messiah, come from distant lands to bring victory through technology. Sadly, all that Dom had brought with him were a 9mm pistol, a watch, a cell phone and, for some strange reason, his car keys.

"I fear I may not be able to meet your expectations, in any case," Dom warned him.

"But you'll take the job? Lead the men, train them for battle?"

"I'll do my best," Dom struggled, wincing noticeably. He had given Thompson the answer that the American had wanted; the noble smiled, tapping Dom on the shoulder gently.

"You won't regret this. And I don't believe I will either. You have two weeks to prepare for an attack on the southern section of the forest. Dismissed."

Dom bowed slightly, hunching his shoulders and lowering his head as he stepped backwards out of the tent. Before he could turn around and leave, Thompson returned.

"One more thing, Dom. If you see my other advisor lurking around camp, send him up. I have need of him."

"Your...other advisor, sir?" the mercenary asked, intrigued.

"You'll know him when you see him. He'll have a hood on, riding cloak, boots...you won't see his face, he never shows it. But you'll know who he is. He's my most trusted spy."

VVVVV

Matt trudged through what seemed like an endless sea of knee-high grass, following Royce as they lumbered on towards a distant hill. The sun was beginning to peer over the hazy eastern horizon, establishing a reddish glow that was growing stronger with each passing minute.

"When do you plan to stop?" Matt asked Royce. He was exhausted; they had been traveling all night, both under the escort and under the threat of attack by roving Harvesters. So far, they had not been followed.

"Once we find something more defensible. The hill does look good."

Matt thought he could spy something at the very top of the smooth mound, concealed by a stand of oak trees. He shrugged it off, figuring that his lack of sleep was causing him to hallucinate objects. He stumbled on after Royce as they exited the field of greenery and began to slog up the hill.

"Do you think we were followed?" Royce asked, turning around. Matt did the same, but saw nothing that would betray hunters. Not a single movement in the sea of weeds.

"No, I don't think they were after us...we got away."

"Good timing, too," Royce commented and, grunting, fell silent once more as he grabbed onto a loose root and used it to pull himself up.

At the top of the hill, concealed by a copse of green trees, sat a small wooden cabin, no larger than a suburban house, and only one story. There was a single door, two windows, and a tiny chimney issuing small wisps of smoke.

"Well, we aren't alone, at least. Small comfort," Royce laughed, approaching the door and knocking.

"Shouldn't we...leave? If someone else is here?" Matt questioned. "What if...the owners of the house are hostile?"

"Like Harvesters? Raider shit don't like in places like this. It may not be very nice, but it's too high quality for their kind," Royce answered. His knocks were responded to by a young man, dressed in blue pants and a light turquoise shirt, peering out of the doorway, barely visible.

"Visitors?"

"For...a little while, perhaps," Royce answered, sounding exhausted himself.

"Do you have supplies? Weapons? Anything?" the stranger asked, still hidden behind the door.

"Blades...that's about it," Royce figured, tapping his own sword. "Not a very remarkable weapon, but one all the same."

"Alright, well, so long as you can defend yourself...one night is all I can grant you."

The door was flung open, and in the doorway stood an ordinary looking man. Ordinary, except for those gleaming, shining white eyes.


	8. Brother's Keeper

**Greetings internet! Certainly not Mellifluousness here!**

**I just realized that I completely neglected an A/N section for the last chapter, so I humbly apologize for that. I must answer reviews here, as well as give some shoutouts.**

**First and foremost: our NEW COVER. Thanks to the wonderful and artistically talented HPE24, Whispers has a representative cover of Matt holding Adeline's pendant out in front of him, and creepy Ender eyes. Go check her out on dA (you'll find the link on her profile) and go appreciate all the rest of her art!**

**Shoutout number two: I have just recently read two fanfics, and I would recommend them highly. First one would be **_**The Darkness Beyond**_**, by Aviskye, and the second one would be **_**The Curses of Magic**_**, by KatrinaLinden. Do me a favor-hell, do yourselves a favor! Go read and review :D**

**REVIEW ANSWERS:**

**Pewdiepie: You're welcome to stay here, but don't bring any Brutes with you. They're not nice company.**

**HPE24: Oh yes, I love my references. This all takes place in your same world, so HA. Kenly is living in Delta's house. I hope Delta824 can appreciate an Englishman...**

**EclipseWolf: You seem to have a lot of evil subs. I'm glad I can make the day better!**

**TerrarianCreeper: Darius and another as-of-yet-to-be-revealed Gone character will be present in this. You will see how in a few chapters, so bear with me! He's not at Brackwood, but he'll be present by Chapter 13. He will NOT be a minor cameo. Neither will the other character.**

**Also, I mentioned this earlier. Lord Cymander has an army of 40,000 men called "Lapiscloaks". They dye their cloaks blue, therefore he loves the color blue.**

**Mayosoul: Thank you! And you'll see what the guy with the gun is all about in Chapter 7.**

**VVVVV**

James Kleiner's eyes ranged far beyond those of his actual oculi; he had ears as well, hundreds of them, ranging from mere feet outside of his apartment's door to the distant ports of Moon's Eye and the Trade Nations on the far western coast. They saw and heard, and brought their reports back to him.

As of late, the only reports that really, truly interested Kleiner were those concerning the shadowy man who had been seen hanging around Alex Tanner as of late. The hot headed youth was certainly a cause for concern-handsome, dashing, chivalrous, he had the support of many lesser folk-but it was the hooded man who followed him that concerned Kleiner more.

That creature, that lurker...wherever Tanner was to be seen, the faceless bastard was not far behind. And Tanner was a man who simply _adored _being seen; everywhere he went he attracted attention, good _and _bad. On one level, Kleiner envied him for that attention; and on another level, he was glad to be out of the city's gaze most of the time. He preferred that his matters be kept as private as possible.

So there he sat, in his private solar, overlooking the crude mud-brick homes and more expensive stone villas of New Connaught, spreading out like a cancer unto the plains and hillocks and encompassing the serpentine banks of the mighty Delphos River. And there stood one of his most reliable and trustworthy spies, a man with no name and yet the most storied history of any man who had presented himself before Kleiner.

"I was led to believe that the pendant had been lost to time. Elena never spoke of it when I talked to her," Kleiner said, watching tiny shapes mill about in the geometric streets of New Connaught.

"It has been in her family for hundreds of years, hidden away somewhere in Brackwood Keep. Perhaps even she was not aware of it until one of her men reported that it was stolen," the spy spoke. He sported a deep scar across his left cheek and down his chin, the result of fighting during Sophia Caullon's uprising years ago.

"And it's certainly missing?"

"One of her own guardsmen reported it to her," the other man told his lord. "She's been mad with grief ever since. We just received the messenger last night."

The pendant of Adeline Jones was half a legend now; some refused to believe it existed, and others believed that it was secured deep within Lord Kastner's vaults, underneath New Connaught. But it had been in the Lanos family for generations, according to official records.

_Lady Lanos never mentioned it. Perhaps she simply forgot it existed?_

James Kleiner had seen Elena Lanos many times, and even attempted to court her once; never before had he seen such a piece hanging around her neck, or heard her mention it. But it was supposedly kept safe beneath the walls of Brackwood Keep; and now missing, stolen or lost or whatever.

"No thief could have taken it," Kleiner supposed.

"No ordinary thief. There are those who can travel under even the most watchful of eyes," his spy spoke, quietly now.

"There are few who can get in without being seen like that," Kleiner replied.

"It boggles the mind, doesn't it?"

With every word his eyes told him, Lord Kleiner became more suspicious. He could never _truly _trust this man; but he had enough gold to buy his loyalty for quite some time. The payment rates were high, but so long as the coins flowed the words would.

"She'll find a scapegoat," the spy began once more.

"Cameron Renn-"

"Precisely, my lord."

Lord Renn had never professed to be a friend, acquaintance, or ally of Lady Lanos. Their borders were against each other's, and the two nobles were always contentious.

"Do you think it will be war? Renn has already had altercations with the Brackwood before, and his army is ready for combat," Kleiner asked.

"I do not think that blood will be shed, my lord."

"But this will not be resolved easily, no?" Kleiner continued.

"I do not think so. Unless Kastner steps in, my lord."

"He has enough on his plate, I think. He will not deal with Southron nobles bickering over a stolen necklace," Kleiner finished, setting his goblet of pumpkin juice aside.

"That pendant has more value than you may be led to believe, my lord. Its powers are rumored to be-"

"A load of bullshit, that's all," Kleiner spat, standing up brusquely. "I pay you for facts, not for legends. You have brought me plenty of information today. I have a new job for you, something more specific."

"If you have the coin, I'm up for anything," the spy smiled. Lord Kleiner knew what he wanted to see; he gently retrieved the key to his vault, slipping it from the pocket of his tabard, slowly. The other man's eyes lit up briefly.

"I've got the coin. Plenty of it. You ever hear of a noble by the name of Alex Tanner?"

"Of course, my lord. The young Tanner, son of the dead-"

"Listen closely. What I need you to do will be difficult. There is a man who trails him..."

VVVVV

Matt stepped over the threshold immediately, eager to receive some shelter and warm food. But Royce did not follow him; rather, the sellsword stood outside, eyes wide open and wary, looking as if he wanted to turn back the other way and run back down the hill.

"Royce? Are you...coming?"

"Not with him. No damn way," Royce growled, tapping the butt of his sword cautiously. "You don't recognize him, do you Matt?"

"I...no, I don't," Matt replied, warding off sleep by blinking rapidly.

"I'm afraid I've earned a rather...unsavory reputation with most people," the white-eyed stranger spoke.

"Thief, griefer and rogue, that's what you are," Royce decried him.

"Such harsh words," the other man shook his head. "I daresay you've fallen prey to whispers, my friend. Rumors and legends."

Matt knew that _something _was off about the man; the eyes glowed like tiny fires, lighting up his entire face with a soft white light. But he was so exhausted and deprived of sleep that it did not strike him as terrifying, only unusual; and he wasn't about to refuse the hospitality extended to him.

"It's a warm bed and warm food...I'll take it," Matt conceded sleepily.

"It seems to me that you have a blade on you. You have nothing to fear if I invite you into my house," the white-eyed man said. Royce sighed and shook his head stiffly, but stepped over the threshold anyway, finally convinced.

"We're thankful for your hospitality-"

"You can thank me properly later. For now, you both need your rest. Beds are in the basement, shouldn't be too hard to find," their host directed.

"Er...thank you," Royce replied awkwardly, shouldering past the stranger and locating the stairwell leading down into the basement of the house.

Matt really had no choice but to follow him; the appeal of a decent sleep, something he hadn't received in a few days, was too overpowering. Fighting off the wave of slumber attempting to overcome he, he stole down into the basement, found what looked like a bed, and threw himself down onto the mattress without any care, before immediately falling into unconsciousness.

VVVVV

Matt woke up, stiff from sleep; how long he had been passed out, he did not know. The basement of this stranger's hovel lacked windows, as well as a timepiece of any sort. Matt stirred lazily, all of the blood coagulating in his head and temples, making them throb angrily. On the bed next to him, Royce appeared to be a wooden log; he moved naught an inch, and his breathing could hardly be heard. He had slept with his armor and scabbard still on...

The strange, exotic, seductive smell of brewing tea flowed from upstairs, and Matt was drawn to it by a powerful hunger and thirst. Matt rose from bed, head pounding like a smith's hammer, summoned by the sweet aroma from above. This host had already extended his beds...perhaps he'd be willing to share some of his food and drink? The worst he could do was refuse.

His white-eyed host was sitting at a humble wooden table in the middle of the main room, staring out a window at the western horizon as the sun began to sink. Small torches, attached to the wall, had been lit all over the kitchen and filled the smoky room with dim light.

"I was wondering when one of you would wake up," the man spoke, pouring tea into a small, crude clay cup. "You've slept the entire day."

"I can see that. Do you mind if I have some of that...tea?" Matt asked, trying to sound as gracious as possible while fighting off the dreary shroud of sleep.

"Feel free. There's more than I can possibly drink," came the reply. Matt took a seat at the table awkwardly, sore and injured. He poured himself a decent cup of tea and watched the light disappear outside, stoically staring at the window pane.

"You seem familiar," Matt spoke up once the sun had disappeared, and stars had begun to shine brightly.

"I'm what one might call a _monster_."

"A monster? Because of your eyes, is it?" Matt asked.

"That's part of the problem," the man calmly replied. "I have earned a nasty reputation as a thief and murderer. I'm one of those sorry people whom nobody seems to understand."

"A name would be just as nice," Matt suggested.

"Well, my old name is forgotten, even by me," he answered. "But many simply call me by the dreadfully insensitive name 'Herobrine'."

"You don't even have a real name?"

"It simply escapes me is all," came the answer. "And what might yours be?"

"Er...Matt, just...Matt."

"And where are you from, might I ask?"

Matt, becoming slowly more acceptive of his host's unnatural qualities, quickly told his tale of his arrival, the festival, and the fiery destruction of his newfound home, as well as his flight to Milltown with the caravan.

"You're lucky to have survived. The Harvesters are a brutal group," Herobrine mentioned.

"They ambushed us on the roadway. I don't know how many of us survived," Matt whispered, remembering the dreadful fighting from earlier in the night.

"It's a fool's errand to travel at night."

A few more moments passed in silence, the torches flickering and spilling waves of light out through the window panes and into the dark night.

"Well, now that our prelude is over, what is in your pocket?" Herobrine asked calmly.

"My...pocket?" Matt stopped sipping his tea, suddenly nervous.

"Yes. What is in your pocket?" he repeated the question, turning those white eyes to train them on Matt. A bead of sweat slid down the latter's face, and he began to find it difficult to keep his composure under what seemed to be an placid interrogation.

"I...I don't have anything in my pocket."

"You lie. We shall only speak the truth here, I do not mean any harm," Herobrine reassured him. "What is in your pocket?"

Matt's hand felt its way down his flank, down to his thigh, and to his pants, where the pendant beckoned to him. With a shaking arm, he grabbed the precious trinket by its silver chain and slowly, by measure, withdrew it from the aperture of his pocket, and held it out in front of Herobrine, the tiny stone dangling in the space above the steadfast oak table.

"You were looking for this," Matt stated, biting back his own tongue as he felt the urge to shake again.

"That I was. I could feel its presence," Herobrine answered, allowing Matt to hold the pendant suspenseful above the teacups.

"Its...presence?"

"I can feel the power that is buried within this tiny stone. It is sentient, alive with malice and bitterness and untamable energy. Its seductive grasp is deadly, and when in mortal hands...lethal."

Herobrine studied the piece, reaching out with his own arm and delicately seizing the stone in his own hand.

"But it has a certain benevolent power as well...I would say it's neither good, nor evil."

"So...it's like yin and yang?" Matt suggested. He was beginning to feel the pendant growing on him once more, calling to him in some quavery, soft voice. He shook his head, and the seductive pull dissipated briefly.

"In a sense, yes. It's neither black, nor is it white," Herobrine explained, talking as if he were speaking to an old acquaintance and not some complete stranger. "It is raw Ender energy, condensed into a solid form and hung by a marvelous chain of silver. Such a history has been bestowed unto this piece..."

"It belonged to Lady Lanos," Matt pointed out, now finding himself desiring the pendant once more.

"That I am aware of. The entire lineage of the pendant has been in my command for centuries. I have been keeping track of it for that much time."

"You...I'm sorry?" Matt queried, his arm shaking as he wanted to reach out and seize the pendant back.

"The pendant has been in my control for decades, Matt. Are you familiar with the family of Bergensten in the Brackwood?"

"I...no, not at all," Matt gave up, knowing that he had no knowledge of such a family line.

"An ancient family. For decades, they have been in touch with me-keeping the pendant hidden safe within the confines of Brackwood Keep. In the possession of House Lanos, but at the same time within my possession as well. The castellans of Bergensten kept it within reach at all times."

"You...paid them off, is it?" Matt assumed.

"They owed me a debt, an ancient debt," Herobrine corrected. "But nevertheless, they've kept the pendant sealed away for me, away from prying eyes and thieving hands. For generations, generations...and now you must be wondering how it came to be in your possession, yes?" Herobrine asked, before slowly extending his muscular arm and returning the pendant to its previous owner, who gladly retook the trinket and stowed it away back in its safe hiding place.

"I found it in-"

"A shallow stream, yes," Herobrine finished, as something stirred from the basement, groaning. "I've felt...a strange power, growing over these lands. Dark, not dark enough to blot out the light but sensible...it's there."

If such words came out of anyone else's mouth, Matt would have called them "bullshit" right on the spot. And yet, Herobrine's smooth, calm voice and his mysteriously glowing eyes lent him a sort of unearthly aura, something that gave Matt the feeling that every single word he spoke rang true. He listened closely as Royce stirred down below.

"I've felt this power, and I know that it has malicious intentions. So I intended to send the pendant away from its known storage area-many people know that it is secreted away in Brackwood Keep. So I ordered the castellan to dispose of it, toss it out into nature. I did not tell him why, but he did as I commanded-part of the oath he swore to me."

"And that's how I found it," Matt finished.

"Yes...I was not expecting someone to find it. Clearly, I did not plan that out well enough. But this changes everything, you realize?"

"Because your plan didn't end up well?" Matt presumed as Royce stumbled up the stairs, bleary-eyed from sleep.

"Yes...the pendant has fallen into your hands. And it cannot be returned to Brackwood Keep."

"What do you plan to do with it, then? I've a feeling you haven't told me the full story," Matt spoke cautiously, finishing his tea.

"I've told it as best as I can. I feel a shadowy power growing. I can say no more, but it relates very much to the pendant," Herobrine spoke, as Royce took his own seat at the table.

"Mind if I have some tea?" the sellsword asked sleepily. Herobrine nodded, and the former poured his own cup of the steaming liquid.

"So, you didn't answer my question. What do you plan to do with it?" Matt asked, now thoroughly engaged in the conversation and aware of what was going on.

_I've come into possession of an item with immeasurable power...and someone else wants it? Someone besides Lady Lanos?_

"Hide it somewhere else. Preferably far away from here," Herobrine replied.

"You...want me to take it, don't you?" Matt knew where he was going.

"You already have possession of it. It would be a relatively simple task to bring it to a new safe haven, somewhere that it cannot be accessed," Herobrine explained.

"What's in it for us, then?" Royce and Matt both asked, one after the other. "I'm not going out on some errand without coin," Royce added.

"There will be a home for you, Matt. Isn't that enough?" Herobrine proposed. Matt knew that what he really sought was Sora-he still hadn't seen any sign of her on the road-but a home would be a good step towards his ultimate goal of reuniting with her.

"I...would be grateful to have an actual home...the last one did not last very long."

"And this one will be much safer, I can promise you that," Herobrine said. "The Ditch is a fortress..."

"Well, now, that has me intrigued," Royce chuckled, pursing his lips. "The Ditch, eh...I don't know who the hell you are, but you've got me interested now."

Herobrine obviously knew that Matt was unlearned about The Ditch; over a period of ten short minutes, the white-eyed man laid out the basic description of this so-called "fortress".

"It's one giant ravine that runs down to the top of the world's mantle. Nearly a mile wide, dozens of miles deep, there are only a few true entry points, all bristling with defenses and guards. It's one of the safest places in the world, along with Swampheart's citadels and the Black Haven."

"It would be sheer suicide to attempt an assault on The Ditch," Royce explained more. "I've never been there, but the stories I've heard...there's no place I'd rather be in dark times."

"And you intend to send the pendant there?" Matt made sure he was correct.

"Yes, in your hands. And in exchange, I will make sure that you are given a proper home. I have an...old friend there who would be willing to help out. I also have another friend who is traveling at the moment-someone who I will arrange for you to meet."

This all made little sense-a strange man with white eyes dispatching Matt to a location that seemed as distant as the moon, with an object of immense power in his hands-but he had nowhere else to go. His home had been burned, he was wanted by Lady Lanos and Lord Willum, only one of his caravan remained...where could he turn but to this stranger and his unique proposal?

"Matt...this is a chance to get far away from the Southrun. You've got nothing going for you here," Royce whispered. "We'll be somewhere safe...remember, we're fugitives now-"

"Law matters little in this land," Herobrine spoke. "One noble may claim one thing and be refuted by another. Nobody will apprehend you once you get out of the Southrun."

"And I'm certain Lady Lanos still pins the thievery on you. As does our good friend Lord Willum, who won't be missing his escort for another few days," Royce pointed out. "We have every reason to flee west."

"You would be going to New Connaught first-and then to The Ditch. There is a man in New Connaught I want you to find, he will take you out west safely," Herobrine instructed.

"The 'friend' who is travelling at the moment, correct?" Royce asked, now sounding eager to be going somewhere.

"Yes. Castellan Bergensten-well, no longer a castellan-will be in New Connaught by the time you arrive there. Presuming that you actually _go _there."

"_Castellan_?" Royce asked incredulously.

"He was. Of Brackwood Keep, that is." Herobrine briefly retold the story of the pendant, and how it ended up in Matt's hands. Royce had no words for the situation, glancing back and forth between the two other men.

Matt was conflicted once more; they were going off on an extraordinary quest, now labeled as criminals by two nobles, through dangerous lands with a pendant that exuded a seductive power. But they had nowhere else to go; any chance of Matt finding a new home with the caravan had died on the dark dirt road ten miles from Milltown.

"My paycheck died with Evans yesterday," Royce snorted. "I'll go anywhere now. At least I'll go to New Connaught, perhaps return to the trading company."

"Can you escort the pendant that far? If I can get Matt there, he'll be safe in the hands of Bergensten and his men."

"I s'pose I can," Royce muttered. "It'll get me back home, maybe I'll pick up another caravan."

"I trust you to keep the pendant-and Matt-safe when you travel. Get him to New Connaught, that's all I ask. Inquire in the south side inn _Rose Cross _for your man, Rykar Bergensten-you'll find him easily."

"I can do that. Only as far as New Connaught, I'm afraid. As much as I'd like to see The Ditch...my interests still lie with Crosshatch," Royce proclaimed.

"I would thank you to take good care of Matt and the pendant. It's a long road, and you seem to have made a number of noble enemies in your travels."

"We'll have a few days advantage, at most. Lord Willum won't know that his convoy was attacked until the morning."

"Enough time for you to set out, I should think," Herobrine replied.

"Wouldn't we want to travel by...day?" Matt stuttered, taken aback suddenly.

"On the contrary, you'd want to travel by night," Herobrine educated. "Less chance of being spotted by anyone, both Harvesters and soldiers. You'll be able to head up north, hit the river and then make your way up out of the Southrun and into the hills. It won't be far to New Connaught from there."

"Where else are you going to go, Matt?"

Royce was right; there was _nowhere _else to go, but to New Connaught. If Matt were lucky, perhaps he could find a home at this Ditch that the other two men were referring to; that is, if they could even make it to the city itself...

"So we're leaving, then? Is that it?" Matt asked, wondering whether this was the end of their little visit.

"The sooner, the better," Herobrine replied, pouring the rest of the tea into his own cup and sitting lazily at the table, as Royce rose once more. "Like I said, find Rykar Bergensten. And tell him this name-"

Herobrine leaned over to Matt and whispered something into his ear. The words were barely audible, but Matt was able to understand, and nodded his comprehension.

"Tell him that, and show him the pendant. He will know what to do, and how to proceed. Clear?"

Matt nodded his assent again.

"Good luck to both of you. I am sorry that events turned out like this...but you'll be glad that you happened upon me. Pray that you make it to New Connaught safely."

Royce had already gathered their gear and deposited it at the door, handing Matt his sword, scabbard and the backpack he had managed to scavenge from the caravan's ruin. They had some food and water, but not enough for the entire journey. Somewhere along the line they would need supplies.

"Why are you so intent on helping us?" Matt asked as the door was opened to the warm night outside.

"Me? Why am I helping you?"

Royce was already out, stepping over the threshold, his chain mail clanking quietly as he disappeared from the well-lit shack.

"Yes...just a random stranger, a hermit living in the middle of nowhere. Why did this all happen?" Matt was inclined to ask. Herobrine smirked, laughed lightly, and then downed the rest of his beverage.

"I owe debts. Simple as that."

"You said you owe two already. How many debts do you have outstanding?"

"Two are paid off now," Herobrine smiled. "But there is one left. And that is to a deceased family member. You could say that I am my brother's keeper."

"And when will you pay that debt off, might I ask?" Matt queried, as he himself began to leave the lights of the kitchen, leave the warmth and comfort of the small cottage behind.

"Hopefully within a year. The pieces have begun moving...if they move right, my debt will be paid off."

With those last words, those haunting white eyes lit up and the door closed behind Matt, as he left the safety of the hovel for the dark night outside. The pendant felt heavy in his pocket once more.


	9. The Passage of Two Weeks

**Hello internet! It's nice to be back after a week!**

**Something else for you all to read: Moralities, by HPE24. It's...well, see for yourself! Hopefully it will be updated commonly. That's the only shoutout for today.**

**REVIEW ANSWERS:**

**HPE24: No one can lie to Herobrine. HE'S TOO COOL. Also, lying isn't nice :P**

**Your cover was better than anyone expected. I'm proud to have it up there with the story!**

**ShadowSong: That's all quite curious. Interesting to implement, but then everything would get too crazy XD. I already have things planned out anyway.**

**Woohooman14: Everyone loves Herobrine! And the Ditch is probably stronger, since it's dug into the ground...**

**BfheadGamer: Because Notch got...depressed after killing his best friend. Thus, Herobrine must carry on and pay his debt.**

**EclipseWolf64: I'd publish it, but copyrights and all :P It belongs here, and it will stay here. But thanks!**

**VVVVV**

A hood was designed to hide a man's true features; if one intended to remain veiled, to become a mystery walking on two legs, then one wore something that obscured their face. The eyes, the nose, the mouth, the cheeks spoke volumes about a person, gave them away when they wanted to remain hidden; suppress those beneath a dense veil of wool, and you became a moving shadow, something that was a mystery to everyone around you. You became someone new, someone different, able to mask your true identity and turn into a visible phantom...

The man wore a hood for those reasons mostly; he wanted people to think about who he was, he wanted to keep others on their toes as often as he possibly could. He was one man to Lord Thompson, another man to Lord Kenly, another to Lord Tanner, and yet another to his true lord.

This is only one higher being I have sworn fealty to. None of these other lords matter.

This higher being was no mere mortal; mortal flesh and mortal blood would be too inferior for one of his prowess and wisdom. He had to take a form of something more powerful, something higher than a human being. The hooded servant was only a human, and yet he had the guile of his master, the cleverness and the subtlety that made a good agent. That was why he had been chosen for such a job; he was the best in his class, and he knew it.

"You come with news, I presume?" his master asked, speaking through the corrupted purple diamond that sat in its usual place at the high seat of the fortress, watched by the higher-ranking acolytes.

"I...yes, my lord. I have spoken to both of the combative lords."

"And what are the results of their endeavor?"

"I...cannot say yet, my lord," the servant replied, bowing deeply to sate his master, who seemed displeased to hear such news.

"No progress yet?"

"No, my lord...there is more time, we need more time...Thompson does not act rashly-"

The servant began stuttering, bending even lower. His master was very displeased, indeed; he was expecting progress to be made in the campaign. And yet the servant, the pawn of the great game, had brought back nothing in terms of news.

"No, he does not. This is true," the master spoke, his voice echoing throughout the dark interiors of the grand chamber.

"I...need more time, my lord."

"You have served me well in the past. I have put much faith in your," the master spoke.

"I am sorry for failing."

"You have not failed me...yet. There is still work to be done, and time is on our side," the master replied. "Even if you bring no news, there is still hope. How goes the siege of Swampheart?"

"The citadels still hold my lord. They continue to send out couriers, but we've captured every single one of them so far," the servant replied, having heard this news from one of the enslaved Endermen who served the Cause.

"It will be many months before those bastions fall," one of the other acolytes, one of the more senior members, spoke. "The defenses are strong, and our forces are weakened by constant fighting."

"We shall send more against them. Their dead only serve to strengthen our numbers," the master spoke. "In due time, the citadels will fall, and so will the great city. In due time."

"And what is it that you want me to do, my master?" the hooded servant requested, still bent down on one knee.

"Return to both camps. Continue to befriend everyone, and attach yourself to both lords. We have time on our side, but we must continue to act. Go, now. Sow the seeds of chaos within their ranks, and return to me within three weeks' time."

The master's words were final; his declaration was the truth, it was what the servant lived to fulfill. Hurriedly, he rose up from the cold floor, bowed hastily, and dashed out of the compound, feeling almost giddy as he left his master's trapped soul behind in the swirling purple effluvium of that diamond.

VVVVV

Dom had never wanted to be a leader of men; his strength lay in his prowess as a hired gun, a man accustomed more to taking orders rather than giving them. He had always been commanded by a "higher up", someone with more instinct and intelligence than him; true, he was still under Lord Thompson's command. But he had been given control of the thousands of men and tribal warriors under the American's hand, something that he would never have asked for no matter how much he was to be paid.

"We make our move soon, or we don't make our move at all," one of Thompson's lower lords explained. "We don't have time for all of this maneuvering."

"Kenly is trapped with his back against the river, and wild lands to the east and north. Where will he go?" Thompson posited the question, pointing to the Black Haven on the massive parchment map. "He cannot hold out forever."

"The Black Haven storerooms are massive, my lord," another pointed out. "They can hold enough food for... months, maybe even years..."

"Kenly still has a sizeable force behind the ford. Even if we take the ford, we'd still have to deal with the defenses of the Haven-"

"There is no siege engine that can penetrate the haven, Lord Thompson. If we cannot starve Kenly out, then our cause is hopeless."

As always, all eyes present at the meeting turned towards Dom, who had accidentally managed to prove his worth as a leader of men the past week. He had earned the respect of both the common foot soldiers and their captains, as well as the unruly tribesmen hired by Thompson. Whenever they required strong advice, they always turned towards him; Dom simply seemed to have a knack for doling out strong words.

"Dom? What do you make of it?" Thompson, from the far end of the planning table, asked.

It was a chilly, rainy day; droplets of cold water fell from the slate gray blanket of clouds above, and a thin mist formed tendrils that reached through the army of tents outside of the old ruins of Delphos. A great day to catch something nasty; a good sixth of Thompson's army had pneumonia, at least early stages of it.

"I... we've got them trapped, correct?"

"Their backs are to the river, and we've got eyes on the water. If they try to break for the other side, we will know," one of the other lords answered.

"Kenly will not be so hasty to give up the Black Haven. He values the strength of that fortress and its obsidian walls. He would rather die within its confines than flee," Thompson remarked.

"It would seem that he wants us to come to him," Dom observed, knowing that the ford was only lightly guarded, whilst the Haven itself was defended by thousands of able men. "He wants us to throw ourselves against his defenses..."

"He believes that I am that naive? He should know better," Thompson scoffed. "I can stand a siege, it will be nothing for us."

"Perhaps it is all part of a ruse?" Dom suggested. "Maybe he's planning for...I dunno, something..."

"It would be more obvious, wouldn't you think?"

"I...I'm not sure. He knows that he is cornered...but doesn't the old adage say-"

"The cornered rat is the most dangerous? Yes, perhaps that is..." Thompson finished, stroking his rough chin thoughtfully. "Kenly is a dangerous opponent. I cannot risk underestimating him, not now. I finally have him trapped, I can finally end this damnable war..."

All eyes turned to Dom once more; he had to have his say.

"What about it, Dom? Speak your mind."

Dom studied the map laid out before him; topographical in nature, the graph displayed the general area around the ruins of Delphos, from the Connaught Mountains to the Delphos River, and a bit farther to the east. Markers had been laid out across the parchment, displaying the locations of troops and units and camps-red for Thompson, black for Kenly. It would have been so confusing to an outsider, but after weeks of work Dom knew this map by heart, and he knew what to do next.

"We attack," he declared.

"We...attack? As in, assault the ford?" one of the lords asked.

"Swift and decisive. Kenly is expecting us to wait, so why hold back? Strike him while he's unprepared, make him reel," Dom explained, cursing his tactical mind. The more successful he was, the longer he held onto this damned leadership job...

"He won't be expecting an attack, that's true," one of the knights added.

"But he will fight, I can promise you that. Dom, you do realize that the ford will still be difficult to take?" Thompson inquired.

"I've heard the reports, the wall is still garrisoned-"

"And Kenly will not simply be obliged to allow his first line of defense to fall?"

"Yes, my lord, I am aware of that. But I still advise you press the attack-we have a good chance of cornering him good and proper if we take the advantage now," Dom explained. There was a brief, brutally hushed moment of silence, during which Thompson, standing at the head of the table, took a deep breath, directed his focus straight at the mercenary, and gently laid his hands upon the map.

"Then we attack. One week, and we launch our offensive. Either we take that wall, or we die trying."

VVVVV

Lord Stanislaus Antar wanted not power, not women, not gold; he had a dream. It was a dream that kept him up late at night, kept his tossing and turning and thrashing in his bed, pondering his great objective and what it would take to achieve it. What he wanted was a united Minecraftia; not the divided feudal system that ruled the fractured land at the present, something whole, something brought together under the mind and mass of one man. He would be what one would consider to be a general; receding brown hair, tall figure, stark facial features and deep gray eyes that projected confidence. He had the natural qualities to become leader of Minecraftia.

There was just the small matter of what stood in his way. Foolish lords did not wish to give up their power. True, many of them could be attracted to his side by the promise of land or wealth-either that or swept aside-but there were those who would resist him. Kastner would gather everyone he could to his side, and the Lapiscloak Army was a powerful force that could turn to either side. All of these variables had to be accounted for; in war, the little details changed the fate of history.

And thus he pondered the future, looking through a metaphorical crystal ball, as he sat atop the spirited destrier which stood on top of the tiny hillock, overlooking the two wee villages that occupied either side of the Crossing. Here the river was at its widest, a place where men could tramp through and the water would not even come up to their knees. An entire army could cross here without much problem; that, however, was dependent on what stood on the opposite side.

"Kastner already has men occupying the Crossing, my lord," Commander Kellas spoke, shifting his weight in the saddle. "I'd say a good company of at least five hundred, well-armed by the looks of it."

"You can't see anything through that damned telescope," Antar cursed, glancing ruefully at the optical instrument. So far, it had done more harm than good in assisting his armies spot out the weaknesses of their enemy. Kellas put too much faith in the more advanced technology that Reinhardt territory possessed.

"Kastner has a presence. That is what we know," the more experienced Commander, Nilas Marder, added. "How strong, we cannot say. But we assume nothing."

"Our garrison's captain asked to see you personally, Lord Antar," Kellas said.

"Then we shall ride down and meet him. Whatever he has to say, I'm certain it is relevant and important." Antar dug his spurs into the flanks of his destrier and the beast began to move, slowly loping down the hill before speeding up to a gallop as it reached the cobblestone road that led into the unnamed village. A few farmers and miners were out this early in the morning, dealing with their dawn business. The only tavern in town, going by the name "The Vigilant Creeper", was completely empty.

Soon enough, the captain of the guard assigned to the hamlet had been roused from his quarters and, in half dress, greeted Lord Antar in the barracks.

"They grow more antagonistic, my lord...the villagers, here," the captain smacked his lips, his eyes darting about wildly. In his pyjamas and mail shirt, he looked like a fool of a militiaman compared to the well-armored, lordly looking Antar and his escorts.

"Our own people?"

"Both sides...they try to cross the river, attack each other..."

"Has there been any major conflict?" Nilas Marder asked, concerned.

"Not since the skirmish, Lord Commander. Nothing that major, no great bloodshed...but the villagers, they itch for such a conflict," the captain reported.

"Bloodthirsty brutes," Kellas muttered, spitting to show his obvious distaste.

"They're afraid of an invasion," Marder said. "They want to strike first, before they get struck. It makes sense, does it not?"

"Indeed," Antar replied in his mellow voice. "They fear the 'enemy'. I do not blame them for being so restless. But such a problem cannot get out of hand. There is no war yet-perhaps soon, but not yet."

"Do you have a solution, then? What do you propose?" Marder inquired, leaning up against the damp stone wall of the barracks' common room.

"They want to show their force? Let us show ours," Antar proposed in turn, smiling.

"All...our entire force?"

"Every man we have fit for battle," Antar replied.

"My lord...that's-"

"Two hundred thousand men. Enough to make several of their generals surrender on sight, I would wager."

It would take several weeks to maneuver all of these men onto the plains surrounding the crossing. But once they were there, it would be more than enough to convince Kastner to think twice about resisting.

If a war came, so be it. Antar wanted to avoid it, but he would fight if he was required to. This was only the first step towards bloodshed; hopefully, he wouldn't have to take another.

VVVVV

"I fear there is not much to report, Lord Kleiner."

"Did you come back with anything?"

"Some," the spy replied. "This man you wish for me to seek...he is difficult to find."

"Give me every detail about him. It could all be important."

James Kleiner had paid purses full of gold for this man to trail the mysterious advisor to Lord Alex Tanner; clearly, the results were less than satisfactory. Nevertheless, Kleiner decided to listen to the bought man talk about what he had seen, and hope that he could glean some small amount of useful information from the ramblings.

"Alex Tanner is not too difficult to find...he loves attention, and he will do anything for it."

"This is nothing new," Kleiner admonished, reclining in one of his lounge's couches. "I asked about his 'advisor'."

"Therein lies the problem," the spy reported, shuffling his feet awkwardly. "I can never manage to catch him. I see him, rarely as it is, but his comings and goings...they are unnatural."

"Please, continue."

"For example, I was able to sneak in dressed as a serving man last week-close to Tanner, in his own quarters. This...advisor of his came to see him, spoke for a moment, and then began to leave the room, down a straight hallway. I followed him discreetly, and watched him turn the corner down another VERY long, straight hallway with no other exits. And when I turned that corner, he had disappeared. Out of sight."

"Perhaps he was fast, you were slow?" Kleiner suggested, beginning to feel like he was speaking to a lackwit.

"No, my lord...there, there was no way a man could run down that hallway before I got there, much less walk casually. He must have-"

"Vanished? Turned invisible? Teleported? Pray tell me, what could possibly have happened to him?" Kleiner chuckled, enjoying the amusement this fraud was giving him.

"Any one of those, my lord, but I tell you this in truth-there was no way that a man could make it down that hallway without being seen. He is not what he appears."

"That much is believable."

James Kleiner noticed that much about the stranger; he was a man of disguises, a crafty and clever sneak who allowed just enough of himself to be seen. Doing so was laudable; to be able to maintain a veil of secrecy around Alex Tanner, a man always desiring the attention of the public, was a difficult task indeed.

"I don't like the man. Magic or not-"

"Magic? Are you saying he's straight out of a child's tale?" Kleiner guffawed. "Such things-"

"It would be unwise to rule anything out, my lord. Queer things have been happening as of late."

"Just like you reported. I do not know what to think of them, but there are more pressing matters," Kleiner grumbled as he rose from the divan. Certainly this advisor of Tanner's was an adversary, a sneak thief who could not be underestimated; but what Kleiner's own spy was suggesting was madness. There could not possibly be magic of any sort involved; such things did not exist...

"You refer to the volcano, my lord?"

"Hmm?"

"The mountain," the other man replied, loosely raising a hand up to the stony crag that overshadowed the city slums. It belched smoke every day, and sometimes spurted fire; given enough time, it would erupt cataclysmically.

"It rumbles and it grumbles, and sometimes a bit of fire comes out. Doesn't seem like much, but I've got to get this city cleared out. So far, little has changed. People don't like to move," Kleiner bemoaned, enjoying the sunlight out on the veranda.

"It's a situation, my lord," the servant spoke.

"Indeed it is." Even a dullard would recognize that. You insult your own intelligence, lackwit. "Which is why my skulking little problem only makes matters worse. He is on my mind more than this damned mountain."

"What would you have me do?" came the question.

"Continue to keep tabs on him. Although you've brought back a less than satisfactory answer, I'm impressed that you've managed to evade apprehension by watchful guards. So long as you stay out of sight, I will continue to have you follow this hooded shadow. There are no questions, are there?"

"No, my lord," the spy answered, more confidently now. "As long as-"

"You'll get your filthy coin," Kleiner spat. Moneygrubbing pond scum. "In due time. Report back to me in another week, and bring something valuable this time. Otherwise I will have no choice but to find a better sneak."

The servant took his leave, bowing clumsily, and left Kleiner to the cup of cold pumpkin juice sitting out on the veranda. He laid back on the divan once more, trying his best to relax. The mountain rumbled once more, a thick plume of smoke rising lazily from the fiery summit. A sign of troubled times, Kleiner knew; an omen.


	10. The Faceless City

**Hello internet!**

**This is the (small) milestone of a tenth chapter. So...congratulations? To me? I dunno.**

**Also, I'd like to suggest to you to go read and review The Miner's Destiny, since the ending will be coming (soon). This is the best time to catch up on it, so do yourselves a favor! :D**

**REVIEW ANSWERS:**

**TheShadowSong: Matt? Why, he's right here :P**

**HPE24: In due time, Leon will show up. Another chapter, I daresay...**

**EclipseWolf64: The volcano will do volcano things soon. And yes, there will be fire!**

**manaphymajic1999: First thing, your name, good sir, is terrible to spell XD. And no, Celine did not survive. It is unfortunate, but it only two Gone characters are alive (not counting Herobrine).**

**VVVVV**

Two weeks of traveling through woodlands and plains had left Matt deprived and exhausted; when they crested the stony ridge of a small hillock and gazed down upon the flowing waters of the Delphos River and the massive city of New Connaught, it finally felt like he had found a home. Or, at least, a place to stay.

Ever since leaving the hospitality of Herobrine's homely hovel behind, Matt and his escort Royce had trekked out of the plains of the Southron and into the temperate forests of the northern part of the province, closer and closer to New Connaught. Only twice had they come upon an actual village; the first one had been burned by Harvesters, a destroyed ruin left behind for travelers to stumble upon.

"Evil has been done here. You can almost feel it," Royce had commented bleakly as they traversed the wreck of the unnamed hamlet.

Most of the men had been killed outright, while they had attempted to defend their homes; the women had been despoiled and then either killed or, if the raiders had been feeling cruel, tortured to death. Not even children were spared.

"The Southron is a giant horror story," Royce had commented again, gazing up at crucified corpses near the town hall.

"They kill everyone, don't they?" Matt had asked.

"Aye. They kill, but then they go beyond that. Women, especially young girls, have it far worse; they'll be raped, sodomized, mutilated and humiliated before death. We've already got prime examples here."

Matt shied away from the younger corpses, desperately wanting to leave the village.

The second town, by the name of Wellington, had its own gruesome sight to display. At least twenty Harvesters had been decapitated; their heads had been jammed onto pikes, and their bodies strung up as a grotesque cautionary sign. A crude hand painted sign read "NO MERCY FOR THE MERCILESS!"

"Heh. Even the brutes are brutalized," Royce laughed as they rode past the heads, each one of them fresh.

"Aye," one of the well-armed guardsmen had called down from the gatehouse. "That's for what they did at Carpale and Stillrun."

"What happened there?" Matt asked, out of sheer curiosity.

"You don't wanna know, lad. Just pray those bastards never take you alive," the guard replied, before disappearing into one of the towers.

They had bought supplies for the road in Wellington and visited a local doctor for Matt's arm, where he was given several illicit healing potions and ordered to spend the night. Reluctantly, the pair sought shelter in a nearby inn and, thankfully, Matt's arm was almost entirely healed by morning, although it was still sore and throbbing. They ate breakfast in the common room before striking out north once more, heading ultimately for the river and for the great city. Only once did they come upon a Harvester by the road, one who had become caught in a bear trap and was lying against a nearby tree. Royce did him the merciful favor of slicing off the leg that was not trapped, allowing him to die faster.

"I should've let him rot there," he mused afterwards, while they were making a small camp in a nearby cave. "I guess I let pity get the best of me."

A week after that, they had arrived on the hillock that stood over the great city, a sprawling cancer of stone and wood that housed millions of people, all tightly packed in what was mostly slums and shacks. A massive stone wall, nearly thirty feet in width, circled around most of the city, except for the north side and the river. The north quarter was spilling out around the giant mountain that stood watch over the metropolis.

"New Connaught. Ah, what an ugly, wretched hive that is," Royce laughed.

"Where will we go?" Matt asked, his horse neighing nervously as a large mountain looming over the city rumbled briefly.

"The trading company's headquarters. That's the best place to go-as for you, I need to take you to an inn on the south side of the city. Search for this runaway castellan, I forget his name-"

"Bergensten," Matt corrected.

"Yeah, whatever. Just remember his name, he shouldn't be too difficult to find..."

As Royce guffawed dryly, Matt sensed sarcasm.

"You're being sarcastic."

"Of course I'm damn well being sarcastic. There are half a hundred inns on the south side-we'd be better off looking for a grain of dirt in a desert. It won't be easy finding Rose Cross," Royce snorted. "We'll enter on the main road, it'll look less suspicious."

The pair descended from the hillock, returned back into the nearby woodlands for about an hour or so, and then emerged on the large cobblestone highway that led south, and turned back towards the city.

Traffic on the road was relatively heavy; caravans, traveling salesmen, priests, civilians, and quite a few columns of soldiers bearing the banners of either Lord Kastner or Lord Kleiner. None of the guardsmen stopped to accost them; Royce still wore the markings of the Crosshatch Trading Company, despite lacking a wagon for goods. Only one caravan passing south noticed and spoke to the pair for a short moment.

"You seem to be missing your paycheck," one of the escorts joked, mentioning the pair's lack of goods. "What happened?"

"Harvesters happened," Royce grunted in reply.

"It seems to occur quite often. Glad we're only going down to Castle Razorback."

They were watched by guardsmen as they entered the city gate, but were able to pass into the metropolis unmolested and unchecked, squirming through thick crowds as they walked. Most of the people rode horses; the ones who were on foot were unfortunate enough to be jostled around by mounts and carts.

They had entered the south side of New Connaught. The walls, at least forty feet tall, towered above them, massive battlements of stone and packed earth lined with guard towers and barracks. In some places they were even thicker, to the point where buildings had been constructed on top of the walls themselves, instead of adjoining to them. Wide streets of paved cobblestones cut past tall timber-frame homes and stone villas, and in some places large collections of shacks or hovels took over, overcrowded and filthy.

"Welcome to the Faceless City, Matt. You'll find no better place to have your damn pockets picked," Royce scoffed as they flowed with the foot traffic, down one of the larger avenues leading along the walls.

"It's called the Faceless City-"

"Because no man here has a true face, so the saying goes," Royce explained. "I wouldn't have expected you to know that. Much of the city is infested with brigands, pickpockets, con men and thieves, or in general slimy folk. Indecent people, best not to get acquainted with any of them."

"Do remind me why we're here again," Matt groaned, watching two suspicious looking men out of the corner of his eye. They slid out of the crowd and into the narrow, twisting confines of a back alley, disappearing into a decrepit stable.

"Some white-eyed bastard asked me to. I'm regretting it already." Royce chuckled at his own joke and the two pushed on, sticking to the south side.

There were people everywhere, from all walks of life. Soldiers and guardsmen plodded the streets in groups, keeping watch and marching from post to post. Merchants, on the corners and crowded sidewalks, hawked and peddled their wares to passerby, selling everything from coal to lapis lazuli to fine fabrics, and more. Common folk, workers and laborers and apprentices, walked from place to place, taking care of their daily business. Porters, hefting large crates or hauling wagons loaded with goods, parted the crowds as they walked, bearing their loads across the city and moving from location to location.

Night had fallen when they stopped by the Rose Cross, distinguished by the fading lettering and emblem inscribed on a sign hanging over the main door. The smell inside could only be described as a wafting, thick cloud reeking of ale, stale sweat, spit, roast meat, human feces and old bread.

"Ah, the stink of an inn. You get used to it," Royce smiled, stepping into the foul odor of the common room.

"It's not my first time-"

"Nor will it be your last. Try to focus on the better smells, if there are any," Royce advised.

"I can't say I can pick out better scents in here. Unless you can get a whiff of lavender," Matt complained, wrinkling his nose as he jostled past innkeeps and burly men.

"Hey, sweat smells better than shit. Keep that in mind," Royce chuckled.

They jostled past more men, finally finding an empty table that would fit four total. Royce took a seat, and motioned for Matt to follow suit.

"Our man must be somewhere in here. Keep your eyes open," Royce reminded him as one of the barmaids shuffled over to their spot and took orders. Royce motioned her away with a disinterested flick of his hand.

"I could use a bite to eat," Matt complained.

"We'll get some later. Better to take care of our business first, and then turn our attention to more minor details."

Royce nervously picked some dry, loose leather off of his hauberk as they waited, waited for someone who looked like a ragged, runaway castellan to show his face in the crowded interior of the inn. After nearly fifteen minutes, during which another serving maid came to take their order and a rowdy brawl broke out between two drunk stablehands, an aged man with blond hair, an eyepatch and ragged, dirty traveling clothes approached them and sat down beside Matt, facing Royce.

"You look like the man that was described to me. Crosshatch, middle aged, dirty, haggard...do you have it?" the newcomer asked quietly, whispering despite the surging, raucous din of the inn.

"Have the...what?" Royce asked, blinking himself out of his momentary stupor.

"The pendant...don't ask questions, just show me the damn trinket!" he hissed.

Without hesitation, Matt pulled the dirtied pendant from the pocket of his mud-caked pants, and just barely revealed it, so that the newcomer could catch a glimpse. Hurriedly, he stuffed it back in as a commoner passed by the table.

"Good. You have it. If you must ask, I am Rykar Bergensten-"

"We've been searching for you-"

"Hush," the castellan silenced Royce. "You cannot mention my name in public. I'm a wanted man, I fled my post and abandoned Lady Lanos. Not to mention I cast out her pendant," Rykar explained in a hushed tone, barely audible.

"It was never clear to me why you did that," Royce said, bemused.

"My oath to the Persson family is much stronger than my oath to the Lanos household. When the time came, I knew where my loyalties lay. Once I fled, I dyed my hair and threw on an eyepatch. Enough to fool most folks."

"And so now you're on the lam, disguised as a back-alley beggar?" Royce gaped, incredulous. "Must be a new all-time low for the castellan of Brackwood Keep."

"I did what I had to do," Rykar growled. "But my job has just begun. I have found the pendant and its keeper, and it is now my job to escort him to a safer location."

"So, this is it? You just take this kid off to god knows where?"

"Is there an issue with that?" Rykar asked politely.

"Maybe...a bit," Royce admitted, wincing.

"Have you grown attached to Mr. Cook here? That would be interesting, wouldn't it?" the castellan smiled nastily.

"How do I know you're Rykar Bergensten, eh?" Royce asked, and within a second the castellan withdrew a badge from his pocket, the pin of House Lanos, and stowed it away before anyone could see.

"I keep the badge with me. A reminder of my service. But I have to keep it hidden; remember, I am a fugitive..."

"Alright, fine. You're Rykar Bergensten. I suppose this is goodbye, then...I suppose I have become attached to Matt. We've shed blood side by side, that's something," Royce spoke, more quietly now.

"If you wish to travel with my group, you're more than welcome to come along. Seeing as there's not much left for you here," Rykar pointed out.

"Perhaps. Where would I meet you, if I were to consider it?" Royce asked.

"West Gate. I've got a few guardsmen there who are...on my payroll, suffice to say. They will let us through without harm," Rykar answered him.

"You'd better hope you bribed 'em well. We'll see if I go there. I'm heading off to either pick up a new job or leave the Company."

Royce bid his farewell and disappeared into the swarming crowd.

"Herobrine told you all about the pendant, did he not?" Bergensten asked when Royce was gone.

"He...yeah, he did. He explained everything," Matt said as the castellan shifted to the other side of the table.

"Then you realize the power that you hold? How much energy is contained within that tiny trinket?"

"I realize that," Matt replied. "But...why can't I shift the burden to someone else?"

"Because no one else will take that burden," Rykar chuckled. "Some dimwit might steal the pendant, thinking that he can sell it, but few understand the raw power contained within it. Tell me, have you felt...like a pull towards it? Like, a gravitational pull?"

"Several...times, yeah," Matt answered, feeling the pull at that very moment. It was as if the pendant was calling out to him, deep within the safe confines of his pants pocket.

"That's the the power of the trinket. It's a dangerous object, and it's far worse when worn. You haven't been...wearing it on your person, have you?" Bergensten asked cautiously.

"No, I have not been wearing it-"

"If that were the case it would've already ensnared you by now," he muttered. "The fact that you're keeping it in your pocket probably helps you resist the drawing force. Doesn't mean you're entirely safe from the pendant's power."

"What do you plan to do with it?" Matt asked.

"Hide it somewhere. Well, not necessarily hide," Rykar tacked on. "I intend to conceal it safe from strange eyes and strange hands. The Ditch is sufficiently well-defended to allow the pendant to stay sealed away. Once we get there, it should be in safe hands. Or, well, safer hands..."

There was more commotion inside the common room; another brawl was starting up, between what looked like a muscular blacksmith and a bulky, brawny field hand who had the look of a Southron man on him. Rykar shook his head in obvious disgust and tried to ignore the cacophony of shouts and guttural growls.

"It will be nearly two weeks' journey to the Ditch on horseback. We've got enough horses to carry our entire party."

"How many people?" Matt queried.

"Ten in total. Nine now, including me, and we're accounting for you. We cannot account for your other companion, presuming that he comes along with us."

"I'm ready to leave. I have no business in New Connaught-"

"Then we'd best be off. The sooner, the better," Rykar muttered, already up from his seat. Matt stumbled out of the booth behind him as the castellan pushed his way through commoners and bar goers, moving towards the back of the common room where the stables were.

There were several men waiting in a dark corner of the stable, all well-armored and armed with fine steel. The head of the stables was waiting at the entrance; as Rykar passed, he flipped the man a gold coin.

"For your troubles. Keep your mouth shut, and you'll have none from us," the castellan reassured him, and the man nodded hastily, greedily eyeing the shining golden disc.

"These are my men. You'll get to know their names, but for now it's kinda pointless to name them. The more time you spend with them, the more you get used to them," Rykar spread his arms to unveil his small group of soldiers. They were gruff, weathered fighters, all in their mid-forties, but they looked far more professional than Royce did.

"The horses are saddled, sir," the stable master spoke.

"Thank you. And-" he flipped the man another golden coin, followed by an iron piece. "We were never here. Remember that."

"Ah, yes, of course...yes sir, you were never here," the man blundered about, stooping to seize the fallen iron piece.

"Now that that's in order, we shouldn't lose time. We need to leave as soon as possible," Rykar announced.

"What about Royce?"

"If he wishes to come with us, he'll be there. We won't make it through these streets easily, and our travel will be slow going. Most like several guardsmen will stop us and check our identification."

"You have alternate identification, I hope?" Matt asked.

"For all of us, except you. But they won't be looking for you yet, word hasn't gotten out. All because of the war," Rykar answered.

"I've missed too much..."

"Lanos and Renn," the castellan spoke as he mounted his plough horse. "Minor, just skirmishes so far, but it's disruptive to the security and stability of the realm. Notch knows what'll happen next."

"War across the entire region," one of the escorts muttered.

"Pessimism gets you nowhere. Someone get Matt up on his mount, we need to leave the city. We'll see if our hanger-on turns up."

"Can you trust this guys, sir?" another man asked.

"Relatively. He's brought our package this far, he can't let us down. He's a Crosshatch man, so he'll be pretty trustworthy," Rykar answered.

"That's not very reassuring..."

One of the armored guards assisted Matt up onto the massive farm horse that he would be riding. It was a bulky beast, nearly sixteen hands tall, but it was gentle, and reacted calmly when Matt urged it out of its stable and followed Rykar out of the building.

The streets were much quieter now, as night had risen and the sun had disappeared from the sky. Normally, the back alleys and dark terraces of New Connaught would be rife with pickpockets and thieves, eager to prey on unwary night time travelers. But the massive group of armored riders seemed to dissuade most of them from even showing up; only a few rough looking men were seen on a street corner, and they failed to make a move even after the convoy passed.

They had no trouble at all until they reached the Western Gate; to Matt's dismay, the gateway was heavily guarded and patrolled by city guardsmen, each of them well armed and on the lookout for someone. They were stirred up when they spotted the approaching escort.

"Damn, I knew we wouldn't get out of here easily," one of the men cursed.

"Play cool. We have our identification, they won't notice anything if we act calm."

"What about the boy?"

"They aren't looking for him. They're looking for me. I'm the fugitive."

The group approached the guardsmen calmly, and the latter watched suspiciously. A large mass of armored, mounted men was sure to draw attention, and even the archers atop the New Connaught battlements were watching down, their eyes following each member of the party from the parapets.

"I'm going to have to stop you gentlemen there," the guard captain announced brusquely, stepping in front of Rykar. "I'm afraid we can't let you go without a few questions."

"Seems reasonable," Bergensten replied politely, trying to throw on a calm and cordial air.

"And what might a group of respectable, fair knights like you gentlemen be traveling at this late hour?"

"We have business out west. The Ditch, to be precise," Bergensten answered.

"Business with Lord Walker, is it?" the captain asked courteously.

"Aye, but that business be our own."

"Alright, well, what you do is what you do. I won't inquire any further." He stepped away from the convoy, back into one of the guard shacks to consult with another man. Matt could not heard a word they said, but the captain's tone was beginning to sound more suspicious, instead of affable. As he returned from his brief conversation, he did not appear to be in such an amiable mood anymore.

"We're searching for a man by the name of Rykar Bergensten. Have you happened to hear of him?" the captain asked, his tone far more gruff now.

"Doesn't ring a bell. Where's he from?" the actual Bergensten inquired, sounding bored now. Matt prayed that the castellan's disguise would be enough to throw off the guards; none of the escorts were wanted for anything, he presumed.

"Southron. He was the castellan of Brackwood Keep. I would hope you are familiar with Lady Lanos?"

"House Lanos, yes. But I have not heard of a man by the name of Bergensten. Was he known to be traveling north?" the real Rykar queried.

"He could be. North, south, east, west, it doesn't matter. We're still looking for him. And you say you've never heard of this man?"

"The name is completely unfamiliar, yes," Rykar answered.

"Well, curious, isn't it. Rykar Bergensten...castellan of Brackwood Keep, known to have fled to escape accusations of grand theft. Known to be disguising himself with traveling clothes, blond hair dye and an eyepatch..." The guardsman was reading off of a scroll of parchment.

The captain spoke aloud, for all to hear, but the only people present were the guards and the riders. Rykar shifted slightly in his saddle, obviously unnerved.

"Eyepatch, blond hair...suits your physical description just right, wouldn't you say?" the captain asked.

"Perhaps we look a little similar. But a castellan would be wearing finer clothes, would he not?" Rykar posited.

"Yes, yes...a man of his station would certainly be wearing something more fitting to his class," the guardsman pondered, and then returned to the parchment.

"Known to be wearing commoner's dress in exchange for his noble's garb..." he read aloud again. "Opted for peasant's rags, have you?"

"They're comfortable. I'm certain that Rykar Bergensten would look far more suspicious than me. I can tell you, I'm not-"

"Let's see some identification, shall we?" the captain requested.

"Identification?"

"Yes...you know, if you really are Ryk-"

"Bergensten? Him? That's a funny notion," a familiar voice rang out in the dark.

Royce, in a fresh hauberk with the Crosshatch insignia stitched on front, rode up on a destrier, looked even better than the castellan. He drew up beside the guardsman and Rykar, looking cleaner than before.

"And who the hell might you be?" the captain asked, but his face betrayed the fact that he might already have an idea.

"The leader of this expedition. We're supposed to be traveling out to the Ditch. I asked my escort to wait at the West Gate for me," Royce spoke, reining his horse in.

"You're Crosshatch?"

"Yes. We're going to the Ditch and escorting a valuable shipment back. Diamonds, probably, but my payroll isn't significant enough for me to know. All I'm told is to bring it back in a month, no longer."

The guard captain looked mighty confused at that point; he glanced from Rykar to Royce, unsure how to proceed. Finally, swayed by the insignia sewn on Royce's chest, he bid the men under his command to open the gates.

"Alright, alright. Sorry for the trouble. Go on, if it's Crosshatch business."

The guard glared nastily at Bergensten, who had just narrowly escaped being discovered. Royce's arrival couldn't have been more timely. Two by two, the escort left the city, led by Royce. As soon as every one of them had departed, the massive doors shut behind them, and they were alone on the west road.

"Perfect timing," Rykar commended Royce as they left the towering city walls behind.

"Did he notice you?"

"He came damn close. I don't think he was too happy to let me go," the castellan replied, glancing nervously back towards the gate. "That insignia works wonders."

"Few argue with Crosshatch. It's probable that they're on the company's payroll, a little extra dosh so that special commodities can slide right through the city. That's the way trade works," Royce answered.

The group fell silent as they left the bright lights of New Connaught's gate, heading out for the distant fortress of the Ditch, a journey of two weeks' time.


	11. A Wound in the Earth

**Hello internet! Me here, with some exciting news!**  
**SPRING HAS ARRIVED! Well, at least where I live. So, that means...optimism :DDD Or something like that.**

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**VVVVV**

Wherever he walked, Dom could not avoid stepping in blood.

The thick red liquid was pooled everywhere; the earth, soaked from nearly five straight days of heavy downfall, could not accept any more fluids, and thus the blood was left to pool on the surface. Already, the field of battle smelled like death, not half an hour after the last Kenly defenders had broken and fled to the Black Haven.

The small wooden palisade that guarded the ford was now in Lord Thompson's hands; his brilliant orange banners flew from each tower, now held by his own men. Other soldiers, especially the recruited tribesmen, were busy scavenging the hundreds of bodies that lay upon the field, taking whatever pieces of armor, trinkets or weapons that they could find, either for personal use or for sale. And the overbearing smell of death perforated the crisp, clean morning air.

"I'll be the first to admit, lad, I didn't think you could pull it off."

The Englishman's voice was pleasant and crisp, much like the cool breeze of the morning. Lord Gardner had once served Bryan Kenly, but had become disenchanted with the militaristic way that Kenly dealt with every situation that faced him. Thus, he had defected from Kenly and moved to Thompson's forces, and had proven himself to be a great asset to the American nobleman.

"It was a bold move, it was," Gardner continued, when Dom failed to respond. "Any attack against Kenly's lines of defense would have been risky. But you managed to pull it off."

"Something needed to be done," Dom muttered, standing in the middle of the battlefield. "We can't just wait him out."

"Aye, I agree. And Lord Thompson seemed to be happy that you made a move today," Gardner replied.

"Did he?"

"He sent a message by bat congratulating your forces. I suppose I should've just sent a courier to bring it to you, but I decided to bring it in person."

"Er...thanks," Dom acknowledged sheepishly, and unrolled the congratulatory message. It was nothing more than that, really; simply Lord Thompson recognizing his victory and the progress it made for their faction.

"He also had another message for you. It was more...well, it is far more urgent than this one. And a lot more important," Gardner relayed.

"What was it about, then?" Dom asked, rolling his message back up.

"Let's get to one of the towers. We've got a headquarters set up in there, I can tell you all the information there," Gardner said.

At least the stench of death would be somewhat veiled by stone walls; Dom was glad to be able to get inside, somewhere warmer. The barracks at the base of one of the wooden towers was small, but a fire in the miniscule hearth kept the entire room warm, a welcome respite from the nip of the dawn air. Dom helped himself to a seat at the barracks' planning table as Gardner closed the heavy elm door behind him and ordered the layabouts to leave.

"I got the message just a few minutes after news of the attack spread. By courier, not by bat. Here, you can read it for yourself."

Dom unrolled the parchment by himself, and read the entire message thoroughly before laying it down to face Lord Gardner.

"If he thinks what I did took guts, he should think again. This is insane," Dom spat.

"It's a bold move, yes. But Lord Thompson deemed it necessary," Gardner replied.

"That's nearly twenty thousand men-"

"Plus another twenty thousand. The last tribe has conceded to us and agreed to fight on our behalf," Gardner interrupted.

"All because of my employer's dirty money, is that it?" Dom seethed. "Forty thousand soldiers...we could very well take the Haven with that-"

"Recent political events are what drove Lord Thompson to make this move. He believes that in the long run, it will benefit us," Gardner spoke calmly.

"How long of a run? This is...too far out for me to see," Dom admitted.

"Perhaps for you. But Lord Thompson is looking farther into the future. He has enough of his own loyal troops to take the Black Haven, no matter how long it takes. However, this army of tribals will have its own use."

"And you want me to go on a march that will take weeks, off to some godforsaken-"

"Four weeks, if you march fast. Dom, these men are paid to follow the orders that we give them. You and I. They will follow you to the ends of the earth so long as they receive their gold at the end of the day. And believe me...your employer has mountains, mountains of gold," Gardner chuckled.

"Don't I know it. Oil's a rich business," Dom remarked.

"And that rich business has provided us with an army. Will you lead it?"

The question was completely loaded; there was no way Dom could say no. Thompson had given out his orders, and there was no questioning the order of your superior. Having been employed as a mercenary for a conglomerate oil company, Dom knew that very well.

"I see I have no choice but to do so," Dom acknowledged.

"Smart man," Gardner smiled. "This is a huge job for you. Take the fortress, and glory will be yours. And much more. And remember Dom. Four weeks."

VVVVV

"It's like a giant wound in the earth. A scar might be more appropriate-like someone took a sword and drew it through the crust of the world."

That was how Rykar Bergensten described The Ditch; a massive ravine eighteen miles long, and one thousand feet at its widest, a giant crack in the tissue of the world. The city itself, also aptly named "The Ditch", was built into the sheer rock walls of the crevasse. Along the stretch of eighteen miles numerous outposts and towns had been built as well, dug into the rock walls and connected by long bridges spanning the vast length of the fissure. Nobody knew how far down the ravine went; one could only see blackness down there, and miners had already delved at least eight miles deep.

"There's only one real entrance," the castellan's main bodyguard, Raynold Warner, added. "Nothing else is built above ground. It's all constructed into the cliffs."

"The most defensible fort this side of Voidmouth. I would have given anything to live here, and now it seems like my wish has been granted," Rykar smiled.

"They're expecting us, right sir?" Warner inquired.

"Aye. They got the bat several days ago, the guards should be waiting for our arrival," Rykar replied.

"Let's not hold 'em up, then. I'm eager to be somewhere warm and dry," Royce urged them on.

For the past two weeks, it had been nothing but endless travel. At first, after setting out under the cover of night from New Connaught, their travels had been smooth. But for the past several days it had been raining on and off, turning the arid grasslands west of the city into an endless, muddy quagmire. The air was thick with wet moisture, and a thick layer of fog had been blanketing the plains for days. It had only recently lifted, although the slate-grey cover of clouds remained overhead.

They had lost one man to pneumonia; he had come down with it before arriving in the city, and while traveling had fallen deathly ill. On the sixth day, he died at sunrise and they buried him in the wet muck of the prairie, leaving a small stone to mark his grave.

And finally, they had arrived. The day promised more rain-the sky to the west was growing darker and darker-but they were finally able to seek shelter. Two smalls tone towers stuck out of the ground before the ravine, the only visible indication of an entrance. As their mounted group approached, Matt could see that even the entryway was partially buried; the gateway and the doors were sunk into the ground, and the road sloped down towards it, bringing them under the shadow of the earthen walls rising up around them as they descended.

"We've been expecting you, castellan. What made you take your good time?" one of the well-armored guardsmen inquired. His voice reverberated off of the solid walls, an echoing ring that lasted several seconds.

"Weather, mostly. It's already a long way from New Connaught all the way out here. We're almost to Reinhardt territory."

"Aye. We were still expecting you a few days ago. Was it the weather, then?" came another inquiry.

"One of our men died of pneumonia. That stalled us a bit, and I suppose the rain didn't help," Rykar muttered.

"Alright, well, Lord Walker is expecting you. Third Level, Main Hall, he's in his public quarters. Be punctual," the guardsman ordered before the iron doors swung open, admitting them into a long stone hallway.

The assembly led their mounts into the dry, dusty entryway, and the doors shut behind them once more.

"Everything's made out of stone down here," Rykar cautioned Matt. "Dug into the walls of the ravine. You'd best get used to the dust as well." His words echoed off of the large walls before evaporating into nothingness.

It was when they reached the end of the entryway that Matt was truly taken aback by the sheer size of the Ditch. He looked up and saw nothing but pale grey sky, clouds looming overhead. The ground simply disappeared at the edge of the ravine, with clumps of grass growing over the brim. As he looked down, he saw an endless black void below him, the bottom of the ravine swallowed up in darkness. The city itself was built into the walls; homes, business, entire neighborhoods chiseled out of the rock. Massive hollow squares full of buildings, giant pillars carved out of the hard stone, walkways arching from one side of the ravine to the other to connect each neighborhood, and stairways connecting each elevator.

The most impressive part, besides the sheer size, were the water-powered elevators that Matt saw at random intervals through the ravine. Natural springs had burst out of the rock at at least a dozen points that Matt could see, and beneath each flow a giant water wheel had been established. The wheel was connected to a rope and pulley system that had its own system established to where it could resist the pull of the water wheel when necessary; however, if someone wanted to use the elevator, the system would be retracted and the pulley would bring the elevator to whatever level desired, at which point the resistance system was put in place once more and the pulley stopped working.

"Eight decades worth of work and planning went into this city alone. It should be a damn wonder of the world," Royce exclaimed as he stood over the main city itself, chopped into the opposite wall of the fissure.

"It's considered to be one, what with all the work they put into it. We're in the main city, but there are at least a dozen other towns cut into the ravine farther down," Rykar said.

They led their horses to a nearby stable, hitched them up safely with some of the guardsmen, and descended on foot down a sloped ramp, moving down into the ravine itself. The city and the walkways milled with people; merchants, miners, woodsmen, soldiers, porters all went about their daily business, almost oblivious to the fact that they were suspended over a seemingly infinite space. Matt supposed this was normal life for them; after all, if you lived in such a wondrous place for your entire lifetime, eventually it would become mundane and normal. But for him, it was a masterpiece of nature, a scar cut into the earth.

They entered the main city without much delay; the crowds moved aside for the large group of men, whose gleaming armor stuck out amongst the brown and gray garb of the locals. Matt could feel some glares being directed at him from dark corners of the city; from alleyways and streets cut into the stone, small groups of suspicious men stared at the group, watching as they moved through the wider avenues. But they ran into no trouble whatsoever, and were able to reach the Third Level within fifteen minutes. The Main Hall was the predominant attraction of the Third Level, where the government of The Ditch was centered. From here, Lord Walker ruled over his subterranean fortress, doling out justice and giving law to his land.

Matt felt very small as he entered the massive Main Hall. The arched ceiling rose overhead, chipped out of grey stone. Everything-walls, pillars, floor, chairs, tables-was carved out of stone. The front of the hall was open to the ravine; people entered through the back, and Lord Walker's dais was situated on the left side. The hall was already full of people, lords and ladies and guards and commoners seeking the audience of Lord Walker, but as soon as the armored men entered the assembly fell silent, all eyes cast on the strange newcomers. With a single word, the entire crowd was dispersed, saved for the guardsmen and an advisor who stood by the Lord's throne.

"Castellan Bergensten. It is a pleasure to see you once more. Twenty years it has been since you last came to the ditch," the man on the stone chair spoke, cracking the silence.

"On an errand of Lady Catherina Lanos, my lord," Rykar responded, moving in front of the throne and kneeling, bowing his head deeply. "She was a good lady."

"It was unfortunate to hear of her passing. Scarlet run, was it not?"

"Aye...ten years ago, it was," Rykar remembered.

"Catherina Lanos died of the bloody shits. A lot of people died of the bloody shits. Pray you never contract that, lad," Royce whispered to Matt as the castellan rose again.

"So...where is the man by the name of Matthew Cook? The man interests me as much as the pendant does," Lord Walker called out, standing up. Prodded by one of Rykar's men, Matt stepped forward and awkwardly shuffled up to the castellan himself, before withdrawing the pendant slowly.

"Do not fear to show it to me. The Ditch does not rest under the authority of any lord but its own, you will not be arrested here. I think that the pendant is much safer here than it was in the Brackwood, myself."

"Lady Lanos is aware that it's been stolen," Matt informed the lord.

"I know. Her prize pendant has been stolen by her very own castellan, her house is at war with House Renn, she's come down with the racking cough...I fear for the safety of House Lanos," Lord Walker shook his head sadly. "Reasons why we had the pendant moved."

"So...it's safe for people to know that the pendant is here?" Matt asked cautiously.

"I wouldn't advise you preach to the entire city that it is in your hands. Lady Lanos has put a hefty bounty on your head, and I wouldn't put it past some of my citizens to turn you in for it. But for all intents and purposes, none of my household or guards will arrest you for possession of it. The pendant of Adeline Jones has found a new home," Walker returned.

"I am glad that it is in safer hands," Rykar added.

"Indeed. Your family has done an excellent job guarding the necklace over the centuries. And now the time has come. What did Hero tell you?"

"He only told me to throw it into the river. Two days later he came back and told me to bring it to the Ditch. I believed he was crazy, until the pendant arrived in Matt's hands," the castellan answered.

"Herobrine has his way of manipulating the turn of events. I know that all too well, I've been a pawn of his myself. But that was far too long ago," Walker muttered. "I suppose I should introduce myself personally."

"You already know me, don't you?" Matt asked.

"Yes...Matthew Cook. I know you. I would prefer you refer to me as 'Lord Walker', but knowing my birth name can't hurt. I am Leon Walker."

"Am I supposed to be familiar?" Matt inquired.

"I was famous a long time ago for reasons that are no longer relevant. That day...that age...has passed," Leon sighed, sitting back down in his chair. "And so have the people."

"Matt's probably very...er...confused right now," Rykar spoke up. "Perhaps we can be given quarters, and I can explain your...past...to him?"

"Of course," Leon replied, perking up slightly. "Yes, I apologize...now that I know the pendant has arrived, you are free to take your quarters. And please, fill him in. This must all be very bemusing. Patrick, show them to our guest chambers?"

The advisor, who had been silently standing at Leon's side the entire time, moved from his position with a humble bow and led the men down a small side corridor.

"Leon Walker's an old war hero. Before this was even a server, he created the NMR after the Great Disaster. In exchange for what he did, saving this world and all, the people at Mojang granted him immortality and eternal youth. Sounds like an amazing endowment, but did you see what it's done to him?"

Rykar was making little sense, and Matt attempted to puzzle things out. His knowledge of the history of Minecraftia was meager, and attempting to piece so many varied events and factions together was not an easy task.

"He...what about him?"

"Mention anything about his past life, and he gets very sullen and depressed. Immortality is a treacherous gift...he's the only one who had received it, and he's spent his entire life watching the people he loved die while he continues to live. It's a wonder he hasn't gone insane yet," Rykar shook his head.

"Is that why he seemed so sad when he mentioned his past life? That would be horrible..."

"To outlive your wife, your children, your grandchildren and your great-grandchildren and watch them all die? Horrible does not even begin to describe that."

Four men were put into each room; space was tight, but Matt didn't have much in terms of belongings that he had to store. The other men had to undo their armor and place it somewhere safe; their weapons were kept by their bedsides, just for safety.

"Lord Walker requests your presence once more in more private quarters," the advisor named Patrick asked of them as soon as he had shown them to their apartments. "He wishes to speak to you and the castellan, primarily," he said, alluding to Matt.

"Let's not keep him waiting, then," Rykar grumbled. "He'll have much to talk about."

Matt was itching to get some rest, but he was obliged to follow Patrick to a small antechamber where, surprisingly, a wood table was set up with chairs, tea and some kind of pastry dessert. And waiting for them was Leon Walker, rubbing his temples in exasperation.

"Ah. I'm sorry for calling upon you again-"

"It's quite alright. It's been too long since I last saw you, and Matt has never seen you before."

"It would be a pleasure to talk to you both. Please, sit...wood is more comfortable than stone, I can assure you," Leon offered.

The two took a seat at the same end of the table before Leon began.

"The pendant will be kept deep within our vaults, under close guard. Archlibrarian Higgins is more than trustworthy," he said.

"The security here is much better than Brackwood Keep," Rykar complimented.

"I should hope so," Leon laughed. "We're a fortress. Brackwood was no more than a motte and bailey."

"Is there only one entrance into the Ditch?" Matt asked offhandedly. "I saw the gate and towers...is that the only way in?"

"Not unless you wanna try to climb down the sides," Leon smiled deviously. "No man has ever tried to take this ravine. They would be foolish to do so. We're not impenetrable, but it would be incredibly difficult."

"That's why Voidmouth is so difficult to take. They built the stronghold into a goddamn ravine," Rykar muttered.

"Safest place to house the pendant. Herobrine told me about what he was afraid of. Something dark trying to take the necklace for its own purposes," Leon said.

"What do you make of it? Herobrine told me...things, but he did not talk about specifics," Rykar asked.

"Dark things have plagued the past of this land before. Monster bosses, great dragons, shadows and whispers haunting the dark corners of the world. I do not doubt that there is something sinister lurking in the shadows of this growing war."

"You refer to Antar's aggression?" Rykar inquired.

"Less than forty miles to the west, an army of two hundred thousand men gathers under his banner. I am concerned," Leon spoke.

"But you haven't taken Kastner's side. Why should Stanislaus target you?" Rykar posited.

"If I am not on his side, I am as good as an enemy. He will not leave the Ditch untouched, should war occur."

"He would be a fool to try to take it."

The men fell silent before Leon, sipping his beverage pleasantly, turned to Matt.

"And what of you? Tell me more about yourself. I'm intrigued."

"I would like to hear more about you. You sound like you've done more...been to more places..."

Leon chuckled at Matt's inquiry.

"People tell crazy tales about me. Yes, I fought in a great war a long time ago. No, I did not fight a dragon or journey above the clouds or become a Listener or any of that. Such rumors the ignorant spread," he laughed again.

"It sounds more interesting than my life," Matt murmured.

"Well, let's see. You're...seventeen, I believe, and you're already on the run from the law. That's something," Leon pointed out.

"I'm just a run-of-the-mill kid. I've always hated school, my parents were assholes, they always fawned on my sister, and I left home to find a better life here. Some better life this turned out to be. I was hoping for something a bit more...peaceful," Matt grumbled.

"Something tells me you weren't properly informed about this," Rykar sniggered.  
"Minecraftia's no place for peace, lad. You've probably learned that by now," Leon sighed, exasperated.

"My village was torched. My...female friend...is out there somewhere, lost. She's a temp," Matt added.

"She's still alive at least. You're a permie, are you not?" Leon asked.

"Yeah...there was nothing left for me on Earth."

Another silence, permeated only by the sounds of soldiers drilling from somewhere above.

"What will we do now?" Matt asked. He turned to Rykar, but the castellan was just as clueless.

"You're welcome to stay as long as you please. The Ditch does not answer to any lord but I, so the laws of other fiefs will not apply to you here. I would not suggest leaving, but you're welcome to depart if you wish," Leon offered.

"I'd rather not take my chance with Kastner's justice. My days as a castellan are over, my job is fulfilled. The pendant is in a safe hold now," Rykar sighed.

"Your blade would be of need here, Bergensten," Leon offered. "We need all the good swordsmen we can get. Especially in times like these."

"If duty calls, I can answer it. But for now, I'd like to retire the sharp edge and take a bit of a rest. My life's duty has been complete; I hope Herobrine is pleased with the results."

Rykar thanked Leon for the tea and pastries and excused himself from the table.

"Will you stay, Matt?"  
"Do I have a choice?" the teen asked cautiously.

"You're a free man. You can stay, you can go, whatever you wish. I will not stop you," Leon waved his hand idly.

"There's nothing for me out there...Sora is..."

"You will find her someday. Or she will find you. One way or another," Leon smiled, before finishing his tea. "Welcome to the Ditch, Matthew Cook. Make yourself at home."


	12. Subterranea

**Greetings internet!**

**Due to a busy schedule, I'm afraid I won't be able to answer reviews today. I've been meaning to answer PMs as well, so when I get the time I will do that.**

**But until then, our next chapter!**

**VVVVV**

Matt awoke in a fit of coughing, inhaling the dust that filled the air all of the time in the Ditch. He had still not been able to get acclimated to it; the stony, parching dust coated his throat, and he rushed to grab a swig of water from the basin to stop the hacking.

Nobody had been woken up, thankfully; Rykar had already gotten up early, something about training at the barracks, and the other two men, Royce and another soldier, were fast asleep in their beds. Matt figured now was a better time than ever to get up and get outside; he had spent three days under the hospitality of Lord Leon Walker, and had still found nothing to do. If this was to be his new home, he would have to find an occupation.

He dressed quickly, throwing on old riding clothes that were still splattered with mud, and found his way to the main plaza of the Third Level. Normally the large circular common ground was bustling with activity, but this early in the morning only a few vendors and guards occupied the stone roundabout. A few whispers and murmurs here and there, but otherwise silence.

From there it was at least twenty minutes down towards the Ditch Vault, a descent of another two levels. Matt opted for the elevator this time around; he had no interest in going down several flights of stairs this early in the morning. Looking up to the top of the ravine, he could see a gray sky threatening rain; another gloomy, cloudy day. It was chilly, too; there was a moist, damp nip in the air, the same kind of nip that had prematurely taken the live of one of his traveling companions a couple weeks ago.

The Vault was one of the most massive structures in the Ditch, a monstrous cavern carved deep into the rock beneath the civilian levels. It was not down to the mining levels, but it was at least eight-hundred feet below the surface, buried deep beneath tons upon tons of rock. Here, Matt would find the archives, and with it Archlibrarian Higgins. Yesterday, Leon had told Matt that if he wanted to seek out a job, he could talk to Higgins, who would give him special guidance. Normal occupations were handled by numerous quartermasters; Matt would be given the special privilege of being assisted by the Archlibrarian of the Vault.

Matt's footsteps echoed off the tall walls of the vaulted walls as he entered. The Archlibrarian sat at the entrance desk, assisted by a few secretaries and assistants. Behind him was the entire Archive; rows upon rows of bookshelves, massive safes full of treasure and special items, rooms full of scrolls and miscellaneous artifacts. A nation's worth of precious gems lay in one secure box, at the very back of the Vault.

"Ah, so you are the one who bore the pendant here. Lord Walker told me to expect you," Higgins spoke softly as Matt entered the Vault.

"I'm not here for the pend-"

"I am aware of that. You are here looking for an occupation. Unfortunately, not many jobs are able to be filled. That is to say, we don't have many openings," Higgins said.

"Do you have any at all, then?" Matt queried.

"Mining. There's always a demand for new miners," Higgins responded briefly. "Mining's what runs this place. Dig ever deeper, that's their motto. Or something like that," he mumbled.

Matt could tell that the Archlibrarian was a queerly eccentric character; he was hoping that applying for a simple job wouldn't take forever.

"How do I...er...sign up?"

"Go on down to the quarry. Tell them you're there for work, take a pickaxe, and get to chipping," Higgins answered.

"Thanks-"

"And don't forget to mention any education you received," the Archlibrarian added.

"I'm sorry?"

"The more degrees you have, the better your chances of living down in the mine. Better hope you graduated high school!"

Matt, realizing that he had not graduated high school, but rather chosen to flee to Minecraftia, felt nervous and twitchy all of a sudden as he hastily departed the Vault, wondering whether it was worth his life to go mining in some deep, dark pit.

Having paid a visit to the Archlibrarian and learned all that he needed, Matt, swallowing his fears of possible death down in the Ditch's quarries, descended once more by elevator down below the actual levels of the city, down to where the mines began. Here, the ravine was far more active; hundreds of miners milled about in open-air pits or moved vertically, while others hung around idly, waiting for something to do. Matt's elevator stopped at the main headquarters for the quarry, allowing him to visit the mine's quartermaster.

"Looking for employment, eh?" the pale-faced quartermaster inquired as Matt stepped into his shabby shack.

"Aye. Whatever you have," Matt replied.

"Lots of lads of your age come down to this pit to work. How old are you boy? What education did you get?"

"I'm, er...seventeen, high school educated. On Earth," Matt tacked on quickly.

"Earth education? That matters a lot more than most degrees here. Well, what'd you learn about architecture and engineering?" the quartermaster asked, intrigued. When Matt shook his head, meaning he learnt nothing, the other man's smile faded almost instantly.

"Ah well. That's what matters. I suppose you'll be taking a normal miner's job. You sure you wanna do this?"

"What's the pay?" Matt inquired.

"Three silver coins an hour, at a starting rate. Work for ten hours, you can buy an entire day's meal and still have fifteen coins," the quartermaster replied.

"I...I'll take that. It's better than nothing."

"I'll put you onto the register. Name please?" the quartermaster asked.

Matt gave his name and information to the quartermaster, who jotted it all down into a large notebook and stored it away in a safe vault.

"Pickaxe will be in the storage room, so will hardhat. Grab some gear and get down to the supervisor, he'll give you a job," Matt was directed.

Matt had no idea who the supervisor was, or where he could be found. The storage room was full of young men who looked a lot like him; bleary-eyed seventeen and eighteen-year olds armed with crude iron pickaxes and dressed in heavy working clothes, some taking a breather and others only starting their shifts. It felt almost surreal; like getting back to the semblance of a normal life, instead of running from a dozen different pursuers.

Matt did as he had been advised; he grabbed a pickaxe, suited up in working clothes and helmet, and followed several other silent boys out into the main quarry entrance. It felt too surreal; the silence was unearthly, broken only by the distant ringing of iron upon rock.

A massive cancer-like formation had been dug into the smooth side of the ravine, with tunnels large and small branching off in all different directions, most of them down in some way. Men milled about here and there, bearing pallets of stone or wheelbarrows of it, separating chunks of stone from more valuable chunks of coal or iron. There was no mining to be done in the main entrance; this was only a drop off zone, where resources were dropped off and organized. The mining would be done much deeper down.

The supervisor made himself quite obvious; he stood atop a large set of scaffolding, receiving updates from his lesser overseers and writing down any important notes or observations in a small handbook of his. Matt followed several of the men up to his platform, where they all awkwardly fell into a line in front of the supervisor.

"What squad are you gentlemen?" he asked offhandedly. One of the boys quietly answered, "None, sir."

"You aren't assigned?"

"No-"

"Mineshaft Seven, find Overseer Payne. He'll give you an assignment. They're working on something down there, so they could use some assistance."

The troop of boys began to move out, a solemn line winding their way back down the scaffolding.

"New guy?" one of the younger guys asked Matt as they filed out towards their objective.

"Yeah...yesterday-"

"Don't worry, man. You'll learn the ropes quick and easy. Most of us are pretty new, only a couple weeks. Even days," he smiled.

"How about you?"

"Roughly a month," he answered. "I know my way around the mine. I know what to do, and what not to do."

"Anything I, er, shouldn't be doing?" Matt asked cautiously.

"Don't go off by yourself, don't anger Payne, and stay away from Aleesha. That's what you gotta remember."

"Aleesha?"

"Yeah, stay away from that harpy. And don't talk to Payne, he doesn't like newbies," another man chimed in.

"Overseer Payne keeps a watchful eye over the Test chamber. Aleesha is one of his cronies, she's the one who works at the ground level and makes sure everybody is working to earn their pay. It sounds pretty bad, but as long as you work hard, you'll be fine," the first man warned. "The name's Kellan, by the way. I'm from Dallas."

"I'm Matt...from Seattle, just got in here a few weeks ago...what'd you say about a Test chamber?"

"The mining chambers are named after the main supervisors. John Robert Test passed away a month ago, so the latest chamber was named after him. Supervisor Mellark watches the job now," Kellan answered.

"That was the guy back there?"

"Yep. He's supervisor of the whole project. He keeps all the Overseers in line."

A massive cargo elevator was to be the transporter for their journey down. Every boy fit into the cage with room to spare, and, powered by the flow of spring water, the elevator began to descend, shaking hazardously as its rickety cage dropped slowly into the depths of the ravine. Down here, the walls were all solid; the mines were dug into the earth itself, not exposed to the ravine's open air. Here and there tunnels had access to fresh air, and outposts had been carved out of the stone in a few places. A couple of rickety wooden bridges spanned the length of the ravine to connect the two sides of the mine.

"Every dang day, it's the same creaky elevator," a deep voice complained.

"They won't do anything about it. Why complain?" came another.

"Because I can. Sometimes I need to kvetch about stuff," the deep voice replied.

"Do it in private. Nobody wants to hear." The doors opened and they were admitted into the actual mines.

They trudged through a dim corridor, one lit only by intermittent lanterns hung haphazardly from the rocky ceiling. Woodwork held up several parts of the tunnels, wooden frames thrown together in order to support the ceiling and prevent a collapse. They seemed to be working well so far.

It wasn't long before they reached the Test chamber. The oldest one in the group took the lead and spoke to someone standing guard at the entrance to the main chamber.

"Payne's expecting you. You guys form an impromptu squad?"

"Yeah, I suppose," the oldest one mumbled. "Call us whatever you want to. What does the old man want?"

"Squads 7 and 8 exposed something, you'll be able to see it once you enter," the sentry replied.

"Exposed something? You mean like a vein?"

"No, not a vein of anything. It's...some sort of solid metal surface, they haven't been able to penetrate it. Payne'll probably order some TNT later in the day, if nobody makes any progress."

There were hushed whispers in the group; this was something new, something unexpected.

"It's nothing big. Just do your regular jobs. I'm sure Payne will find somewhere that you can dig. They'll call in the special works if they can't break this metal," the sentry reassured them.

"Alright. Are we good?" the oldest asked.

"Yeah. They're waiting for you, in the Test chamber. Go see what you can do," the sentry admitted them.

It turned out that the sentry hadn't been guarding the entrance to the actual main chamber; the group walked through several smaller chambers before reaching Test, which had to be at least a hundred feet tall and six hundred feet in diameter. The massive ceiling rose up above them, all stone and dirt, and before them stood a floor of stone, dirt, and sparse coal veins.

Shining like sunlight, the metal part of the floor sat exposed, right in the middle of the chamber. A few miners milled around it, but none of them were actually attempting to attack the bronze dome with a pickaxe. It appeared to be completely solid.

"Eh, what squad are you? Parker? You got orders?" an elderly, scratchy voice asked.

From out of a group of pickaxe-wielding men a grizzled, bald old brute with grayish hair and a scraggly beard approached them, leaning on a staff.

"Not specific ones. Got anything?" the oldest boy asked.

"The darned dome," the Overseer spat. "I'd have you out there beating at it, but that doesn't seem to work. Just a waste of good picks."

"Got another idea?" Parker inquired.

"Dig around it. I'll have some more boys working on that soon. Maybe we can just expose it more, that seems like the best idea for now."

"Aye sir-"

"Aleesha will keep watch over you. I've got to get that TNT shipped in here straightaway," Payne announced, grumbling.

This was met with a chorus of distinct grumbles, moans and complaints from the boys.

"Aw man, not the Bitch again..."

"How come she's always down here in Test? Doesn't she have a better place to be?"

"Jeez, just when I thought the day couldn't get any worse..."

"Aye, shut your mouths," Payne silenced them swiftly. "I don't pay you to complain, I pay you to work. Aleesha keeps you lot in line, and she'll keep the others in line too. Fall in, earn your pay, and maybe we can get past this darn...dome," Payne scoffed.

The scruffy Overseer, cursing his leg, began to stumble off, over piles of earth and rock, heading towards the exit.

"Goddamn him...leaving us with that...that-"

"Aleesha. Nothing good ever came of her," Parker mused, walking inside a shallow ditch. "Come on, if we act busy maybe she'll ignore us."

Matt followed Parker and Kellan into the trench, ignoring the thick clouds of dust and dirt rising from miners digging nearby. The ditch wound around the circumference of the bronze dome, where the miners had tried to excavate it, and failed. There were a few men with shovels digging loose dirt out from the sphere, but the ditch was empty except for them.

"Alright, find a place to dig...we're just supposed to dig around this metal. So, try to make the ditch deeper if you can," Parker ordered.

Matt chose a spot close to Kellan at which he could dig; he ground his pickaxe into the hard stone, and to his surprise several chunks fell off, exposing more of the sheeny bronze metal.

"Aleesha's watching. Try not to look like a newbie," Kellan warned quietly as he hacked away at his own rock.

"How do I look regular?"

"Er...swing your pickaxe harder, grunt more, look determined. If you look like you're working hard, she won't pick on you. Unless she doesn't recognize your face..."

At that moment, Kellan fell silent, and retreated back to his work. Matt could hear footsteps crunching in the loose earth above him, on the rim of the ditch.

"So, we've got a newbie, do we?" a melodious, nattering high-pitched voice inquired in a British accent. "He sticks out like a sore thumb, eh?"

"Look alive, dude. You're in the spotlight," Kellan hissed.

"He's a strong looking lad. I bet he's packing major heat," Aleesha sneered from behind. Matt continued to toil away at the rock, sweat beading on his forehead and neck, until he was ordered to stop his work and turn around. He found himself staring at a girl no older than twenty, with long brunette hair and smooth cheeks, and a bit of a pointed chin.

"Handsome. A bit young, but well-groomed. How long have you been here, eh?" Aleesha asked, cocking her head. She was flanked by two brunette companions.

"In the Ditch...just a few days..."

"Heh, he's really new," one of Aleesha's companions spoke up. "Just a coupl'a days, he hasn't even gotten his mining legs yet."

"Newbies are always the most fun," Aleesha cackled, smiling teasingly. "Better hope you learn the ropes quick, kid."

"They learn fast or they get booted. That's the way it goes," a companion sniggered.

"He's cute," Aleesha smirked. "I could make good use of him one of these days...I always enjoy younger boys..."

"Aleesha, don't you have better places to be?" Kellan sneered, looking up from his work briefly.

"But this is so fun," she pouted playfully. "He's just asking for it-"

At that moment, Overseer Payne returned to the chamber, and Aleesha backed off a bit, still watching the two work but remaining silent as she did. Matt could not see where Payne was at the moment, but he was just glad to have Aleesha off of his case. After a few minutes, she and her companions departed.

"That's the kind of shit I was warning you about," Kellan snarled after they had left. "She thinks she owns the place...she doesn't, but Payne trusts her too much. He thinks she keeps us in line...most of the boys are afraid of her."

"Yeah, and I don't blame them," Matt scoffed, disgusted.

"You haven't seen the worst of her yet. At least she didn't beat you, or try to get into your pants. That's when it gets bad," Kellan grumbled.

"I can already imagine," Matt spat, digging deeper into the earth around the dome. Right as he lifted his pickaxe up to bring it back down again, there was a crack, a crash, and a scream from somewhere else in the chamber. It lasted no more than a second; the scream was cut off almost instantly, and the only sounds that remained were the sounds of falling earth and stone.

There were muffled cries, shouts, from somewhere on the other side of the room. Miners were clambering out of the ditch, rushing to the other side of the dome. Matt followed Kellan around, trying to squeeze in behind several grown men; he could see a massive breach in the bronze dome, as if a large piece of the top part had collapsed in. It had swallowed part of the surrounding ditch as well, creating a gaping sinkhole that continued to gulp down dirt and stone.

"Holy crap...how'd that happen?" Matt heard Kellan wonder allowed, and several of his comrades muttered their assent. Matt could see Aleesha and her gang standing on the other side of the breach; although the harpy's two companions were gaping in the hole in fake horror, Aleesha looked like she was considering it, as if interested more in what was in that dome rather than what had fallen in.

"Rock and Peters fell down there, they just disappeared!" a worried voice cried, gasping for breath.

"Can you see anyone down there?" someone asked.

Overseer Payne began to curse, grumbling as he pushed his way through a crowd of workers.

"Alright, who'd we lose?" Payne demanded. Matt could not see him, but he could hear the old overseer; he did not sound pleased at all.

"Rock and Peters, sir."

"It just collapsed?" Payne inquired.

"Y-yes sir, while they were digging...I saw it, it just fell, and they went down..."

Payne asked for a torch, and Matt could see a flickering flame moving ahead of him. He was able to see the Overseer leap into the trench and lean over the sinkhole, holding the torch up to the dark maw. There was a painful silence in which the only sound that could be heard was the tinkling of earth running down into the gap, and the flickering of the torch's flame.

"Aleesha, grab a torch. Help me, see if you can see anything!" Payne barked, and the harpy promptly ordered one of her companions to bring a light. Aleesha took her place beside the Overseer, gazing down into the pitch black maw, moving the light back and forth.

"See anything?" Payne asked.

"N-no sir, nothing."

"Aye. Step back."

Payne picked up a stone and tossed it down into the hole. It was a good three seconds before the sound of impact could be heard, just barely audible.

"Must be at least sixty feet deep, maybe more," Payne grumbled. "Aleesha, get the men out of here, we're clearing out Test chamber until a special team can arrive. Can't risk any more mishaps."

"What about Rock and Peters?" someone else asked.

Payne pointed to the gaping hole once more.

"Do you hear anything down there, son?"

There was another painfully hushed moment of silence. Not even the flames flickered; the dirt had stopped falling.

"No...not a sound-"

"They're dead. The special team will retrieve their bodies when they descend. I'm sorry."

The miners were forcefully dispersed by Payne and his underlings, who sent them back on their way to the upper levels. Slowly, painfully, the Test chamber was emptied out, the crack in the dome left untouched.

"Well, that blows," Kellan complained during their exit. "And to think, the day just started."

"They won't pay us, will they?"

"A bit of compensation, perhaps, for putting us in danger. No more than a silver coin, I can promise you that."

The line was slow going to get up to the elevator; what with the massive exodus, the cage had to carry nearly a hundred and fifty miners back up to the main nexus. It was nearly half an hour before Matt finally was able to get back up; once he had reached the main quarry once more, he stuffed his belongings into the storage room, stopped by the quartermaster to retrieve his single silver coin, and left the mine in disgust, before Kellan could find him again.

That night, he lay awake in bed, tossing and turning, desperate to get some sleep. A voice kept calling to him, a voice inside of his head...naught but a whisper...

VVVVV

"Is it hidden safely still?"

"It's still in the Vaults, and it will not be leaving anytime soon. I trust Higgins," Leon replied. Rykar Bergensten's constant inquiries as to the safety and security of the pendant were becoming annoying, but they were well merited. The pendant had to be kept down there; anywhere else, and it would be at risk, easily able to fall into unwitting hands.

"Aye. But...I dunno. I can never feel like it's safe."  
"Better here than Brackwood," Leon pointed out.

"Anywhere was better than that motte," Herobrine growled. "But it wasn't a very obvious hiding place, so that's where I stowed it."

The three of them sat around a wooden table, the same that had hosted Matt and the castellan a few days back. They formed a tight troika of protectors, three men who had sworn to keep the pendant out of thieving hands. So far, the shadows had been kept at bay.

"What do you make of the mine?" Rykar asked.

"It's...unusual. I've never seen anything like it before," Leon shook his head. "We lost two miners down there, and the first special team never came back."

"There are things buried under the earth that are old, very old. Such things are not to be disturbed," Herobrine said.

"I do hate it when you speak in riddles," Leon cursed.

"It's not a riddle, my friend. It's simply a bit of wisdom."

"What are we digging into, anyway?" Leon asked. "If an entire special team of mining and spelunking professionals disappears, what the hell is down there?"

"That, I cannot answer for. Could be many things," Herobrine dodged the question a bit.

"Like?"

"Ancient civilizations often buried their dead deep within the earth. To be buried underground, down amongst the caves, was considered to be an honor to the miners of ancient societies. Trinirians followed that custom," he said.

"Oh, what's going to happen? Their dead going to rise up from the grave and eat us?" Leon scoffed. Rykar laughed too, but nervously. Herobrine's silence changed their attitude.

"You...you're joking, right?" Leon asked, cocking his head slightly. "Those are old tales meant to frighten children. The dead walking?"

"Their animated bones may very well stalk those halls. What else would've happened down there?" Herobrine asked.

"That's preposterous," Rykar complained. "Mobs went extinct centuries ago, during the Industrial Era...are you saying there are more?"

"Necromancy is a powerful, and not completely lost art. There could certainly be restless dead in that chamber. I would guess that it is, indeed, a burial chamber," Herobrine answered calmly.

"I've got more than enough problems on the surface, I can't be dealing with a child's nightmares," Leon muttered, slapping his palm to his forehead.

"Dark arts prosper in dark places. And you've opened such a dark place to the light."

"Six men trained to go into caves and deal with natural hazards disappeared down there. It's unearthly," Leon said.

"Perhaps they simply got lost," Rykar suggested. "Human error..."

"Eh, perhaps. But they were really good men, well trained. Veterans of spelunking...I fear worse things..."

"Tomorrow, perhaps, would be a better time to think on it. I would not be so negative about it, but in case there is something down there, I would not take the situation lightly," Herobrine advised.

"What do you make of Matt?" Leon questioned.

"What about him?"

"What do you want to do about him?"

"I think he's perfectly fine where he is right now," Herobrine shrugged. "He's safe, sound, close to the pendant. I would not worry too much about him."

"Mining does not sound like it suits him," Rykar cautioned. "I think he would fit in much better in a military role."

"Have you seen him fight?"

"He survived a Harvester attack. What more evidence do you need?" Rykar posited.

"One does not simply pick up a sword and learn it. Perhaps he can do as a guardsman, but as a soldier? He would have to train for at least four years..."

"Matt would make a good guardsman, I should think," Rykar said. "He's loyal, and he can defend himself. Not much more is required to be on the watch."

"I will talk with the Watch commander and see if I can get a spot for him. It should be easy, there are plenty of posts to fill," Leon agreed.

"It's much more suitable than mining..."

The three men departed almost immediately after, their business complete. Herobrine simply teleported away; he vanished into thin air, returning to the tiny hut he called home. Rykar and Leon found their way to their quarters as the moon rose high into the night sky.

And the pendant sat, and waited.


	13. Their Memories Lie Interred

**Hello internet!**

**It's been a rough time for me this past week, but I'm going to save you all a bunch of rambling and just get on with things. There will be no hiatus due to RL events, just possibly a slower update :D**

**REVIEW ANSWERS:**

**EclipseWolf64: The pendant is...partially sentient, I suppose? It is the property of FullMoonFlygon, so she can answer your questions c: And yes, Matt is an antihero, and Aleesha is not a very savory woman at all. WOOP.**

**HPE24: Matt will get his justice soon. But he still has to deal with Aleesha :P**

**And I haven't read Of Mice and Men. I should do that one of these days.**

**Two reviews? You guys can do better than that! I challenge all of thee...TO A DUEL!**

**Nah, I'm kidding. Review only if you please c:**

**VVVVV**

Two days had passed. And with those two days, two squads.

The news had spread quickly throughout the main city of The Ditch; two special mining squads, veteran spelunkers and trained experts, had simply disappeared into what was being colloquially referred to as "The Doom Dome". As laughable as the name sounded, the bronze dome in the Test chamber had become a symbol of fear, fear of the unknown. Eighteen men had gone down into that black maw, and not a single one had come back up the ladder. When the first group had disappeared, another larger group had been sent in; they, too, had vanished, consumed by the black maw of some ancient cairn. Fear was rank, the smell of it prevalent like the stench of rotten meat.

Matt awoke to Royce shaking him awake, who was smelling of ale, pumpkin juice and sweat.

"R-Royce?"

"Aye. Bergensten told me to wake ya. Said it was on Lord Walker's orders," Royce whispered hoarsely. Glancing over at Rykar's pallet, Matt realized that the castellan was missing.

"W-where is he?"

"Waiting. I don't think he wants to be kept like that for long, though," Royce answered.

"Waiting for what? Godot?"

"Very funny," Royce frowned. "Come on, get your ass out of bed. They're already all dressed up and waiting."

Matt did not bother to argue the point any longer; he shuffled wearily out of bed, throwing the covers aside and washing his face quickly before throwing on the closest set of clothes. He wondered why Royce was dressed up in his tabard and mail, but he was too tired to question it. When the swordsman beckoned, Matt followed him out the door and left the last sleeping man behind in his bunk.

It was still pitch black outside, the dark shroud of night covering the land. Torches, locked into braziers or sconces upon the stone walls, provided enough light for the two to see as they left the apartments and found their way to Leon's hall, where a sizeable group of armed and armored men had gathered. Matt picked out Rykar and Leon easily; the latter had a golden blade hanging upon his belt.

"I got him," Royce announced as the two entered.

"Well, at least he's awake. Did you give him a choice?" Rykar asked.

"Ah. He had an option in this?" Royce asked, confusedly.

"Yes, you were supposed to ask him if he wanted to go with us or not," Bergensten's eyes narrowed angrily. "So you just aroused him without telling him why or giving him an option?"

"I...forgot about all of that, I s'pose," Royce admitted hastily.

"Well, he's awake now. Matt, we're going down into the Dome before dawn, all of us here. Another squad went missing, and it's high time we figured out what was down there," Leon announced.

"It was our intention to invite you to come with us. I've told Leon that you're a capable swordsman, after speaking to Royce," Rykar said.

"Aye. I vouched for you, and then they told me to come and retrieve you," Royce added.

"You forgot quite a few of the things we told you," Rykar growled under his breath, but he was ignored as Leon continued.

"Another team is going down right ahead of us to map out some sort of waypoint system so we don't get lost. Hopefully, all that we'll find it a big empty space down there."

"So, Matt, it's up to you. We'd be glad to have you with us. Another sword might come in handy."

Matt glanced from Leon to Rykar for a moment.

"A sword? What...is there something down there? Or someone?" he inquired.

"That's what we don't know. And I'd rather not take chances on it," Leon said grimly. "There could be nothing. But we're all going armed. Whether you come with us or not is left up to you."

"Yeah...I'll come."

There didn't seem to be much point in refusing and turning back to bed; he was already wide awake now, and the promise of descending into that mysterious black hole was just as exciting as it was formidable.

"Are you positive?" Leon asked again.

"Yeah...I'll go," Matt replied, more confidently this time.

"Alright. Rykar, get him to the armory, armor him and be back here in ten minutes. We'll be down there before the break of dawn," Leon ordered.

As Royce joined the throng of guardsmen, Rykar led Matt down another side hallway and into the guard armory. Chainmail and plate armor seemed to be the predominant form of protection for Ditch soldiers and guardsmen, Matt assumed. What he found in the armory was a lot heavier than what most of the guardsmen he had seen previously wore, and the weaponry seemed to be in much better condition. With Rykar's assistance, Matt was able to pick out a formidable set of iron plate armor, complete with shinguards and gauntlets, and armed himself with a choice steel sword.

"Lord Walker has a golden sword, right?" Matt asked offhandedly as he strapped greaves on.

"Aye. It's more of a ceremonial blade, but it's deadly, especially in his hands. He's a good swordsman, and good with a gun," Rykar replied.

"Gun? He...has a g-"

"No, he's just experienced with them. Firearms are illegal here, remember?" Rykar said hastily, watching Matt struggle with one of the greaves.

"A lot of people back home called golden swords 'budder swords'," Matt remembered. Sky had grown older now, but his channel had only grown larger with age.

"The last person to tell Leon that lost his head to that blade. Think twice before you refer to his weapon in such a way," Rykar muttered.

The feelings that coursed through Matt's blood were something new; whereas before when he had faced combat, he had been scared and confused. Now, with decent steel in his hand and some experience with melee combat before, he felt more confident, almost undaunted. When he returned to the expeditionary group, it was difficult to tell him apart from the other soldiers.

"Are we good to go?" Leon asked cautiously.

"Yeah, we're all suited up, aren't we?"

"Alright. If we move quick, we can get down there before the break of dawn. The less attention we attract, the better," Leon said.

Once more through the city Matt moved, along with twenty-two other armed men. The main plaza of the Third Level was almost completely deserted; here and there a guard, alone and bored, stood at his post, his mail armor lit up by a torch in a nearby sconce. But all of the common folk of the Ditch were safe and secure within their beds, sleeping the night away while the guardsmen kept watch over the dark stone streets. Matt took note of the strange beauty that the city presented to him at night; a deserted stone monument, carved into a sheer cliff, a testament to the skill of a thousand craftsmen who had been dead for hundreds of years.

In no time they had descended down to the Test chamber level after linking up with the Supervisor and a small team of spelunkers. Although the cavers seemed quite prepared to make their dark descent, the mining supervisor did not seem happy at all to be going down into that hole. He was nervous, twitchy, subdued as the team made their way to the chamber, devoid of all life except for two guards standing at the entrance to the hole, watching over the bronze dome.

"They've already gone down, Lord Walker," a steely guardsman reported, holding a torch over the hole. "No sign of them since. It was half an hour ago."

Leon did not show any signs of fear or disapproval, but nevertheless Matt sensed that the news discomforted him. It was enough to unnerve any man, especially before going into a place with such a fearful reputation.

"Alright. We're going on, keep an eye on the ladder," he ordered.

"Yes sir."

Lord Walker set an example for the rest of his men, struggling over a loose collection of dusty stone, he grabbed hold of the ladder and swung himself down, disappearing into the blackness below. He was descending at least sixty feet; the sound of his iron boots tapping on the hollow wood could be heard all the way down, growing fainter as he disappeared.

"Well, let's not keep him waiting, lads," one of the guardsmen, a captain by his insignia, said confidently. He was followed by Rykar and two of the other guardsmen, and during that time Matt found his confidence once more and, struggling over some loose dirt, found himself gripping tightly to the wooden ladder and descending, in pitch blackness, down into the mysterious dome. There was a light at the bottom, growing stronger the lower he climbed; Leon had already gone a bit farther ahead, taking a torch with him. The guard captain had lit another, and stuck it into a nearby sconce to provide light for those coming down after him.

"This is old, I've never seen architecture like it before," a guard commented, placing his hand upon one of the stone walls. They were carved out of the earth, but the stone seemed darker and appeared in some places to have been carved into bricks and fit into the walls.

"Don't touch it. Just to be safe," Rykar warned. The guard removed his hand instantaneously, as if expecting some trap to spring out of the wall. Nothing happened; the only sound that Matt could hear was the clanking of armor up above, as more men came down the ladder.

"There's some kind of guiding line here," Matt noticed, stooping low as he saw the thin wire laid down on the dusty floor, running off into the distance.

"I noticed it too," Rykar added, and Leon, from up ahead, called back "The team before us was supposed to lay a guideline. Looks like they did that, at least."

"Makes it easier to find them, I guess," Matt commented. They hung around in the main entrance until the last man, the supervisor of the mining site, came down the ladder, and the entire group followed Leon.

The tunnels of the cairn were wide, allowing for four men to stand abreast and still not touch the walls. It was obviously in disuse, or had not been touched in hundreds of years; a thin layer of dust covered the ground, and the air was thick with the dust. Footprints were visible in the main hallway, following the guideline that curved through the hallways like some tiny hempen snake.

Corridors ran off every which way; the only hallway that was lit was the one that the survey team had gone through, with torches left in their holders at odd intervals. Every other corridor was dark and unlit; Matt had a strange feeling that he was being watched from somewhere. The darkness was pressing in on him, and he felt that any second it could pounce and crush him.

They were led into a larger, more open room that resembled the interior of an overturned ship, but carved out of stone. Reliefs had also been carved on the walls, that of various scenes from thousands of years ago, now faded and worn. Sarcophagi lined the walls...empty.

"Well, we know what we're facing now," Leon said dryly as he tapped a sarcophagus lightly.

"You've gotta be kidding," Matt heard a guardsman mutter, and he himself cursed under his breath.

_Necromancy...the walking dead...it can't be real._

"How do we know these sarcophagi weren't empty in the first place?" Matt posited.

"Entirely possible," Leon shrugged calmly. "But I don't think three teams of veteran spelunkers disappeared because of empty coffins. If you'll notice, they do seem to be open."

"Yeah...they're open," Matt muttered, kicking one of the iron sarcophagi.

"The guideline is cut off here," Leon examined the floor on the other side of the room. The guideline was running forward, but a heavy iron door had slammed down upon it, blocking passage forward.

"Perhaps they closed the door while going in?" someone suggested. Everyone was attempting to think of rational reasons for unexplained events. Matt could sense the fear; this was a place of death, and men feared death. You could almost smell the anxiety in the damp air of the cairn.

"A foolish notion, at best," Rykar dismissed.

"Aye. They wouldn't close off their exits. I can't really say why this door is shut...can we open it?" Leon asked.

A couple of guardsmen attempted to heft the door open, but to no avail.

"It won't even budge. Not that it's too heavy, something is preventing it from moving," one of them sputtered, exhausting his energy on trying to lift up the iron door.

"We might have to seek out an alternate route," the guard captain suggested.

"And get lost?"

"Well...if we make markers to guide us back-"

"It would take too long," Leon said. "If those spelunkers are trapped or injured, we need to get to them quickly. Search around the room, see if you can find an opening mechanism for this," he ordered.

Matt began to stumble around the room blindly, his confidence waning and his pulse beginning to quicken. Fear cut deep, deeper than any blade; it was like a spreading poison, unstoppable and slow. Everything was beginning to unnerve him; sudden creaks, dust falling from the ceiling, a sudden cough or sound from one of the other men. And it was by complete accident that, while shuffling around and barely trying to find some secret mechanism, that he found what he was searching for.

"Ow...damn," he hissed as he stubbed his toe on a rock in the floor. But upon closer inspection, it was no rock; the portion of the floor beneath his foot was raised up an inch, not enough to be noticeable at first sight, but visible in the floor. Matt lifted up on the stone, and it moved just slightly; he figured out that he was able to push it, and he slid it across the floor, revealing a small trapdoor and ladder that led down.

"Ah...er...Rykar?" Matt called the castellan, who immediately ran over to take a peek down the trapdoor. It was dark, so there was no telling how far down it went.

"Going down again, eh?" the castellan inquired, poking a torch down the hole. It was only about fifteen feet deep, by the looks of it.

"Seems like it. I dunno where this leads,' Matt admitted. "Should we?"

"Let me go grab Lord Walker. He'll decide," Rykar said, and briefly approached Leon and asked him over. By then, several of the men, including Royce, had gathered around the small hole, attempting to peer down into its dark depths.

"You found this, Matt?" Leon asked, as the men made way for him.

"I just found it on the floor. Hidden here-"

"Better than any of my ideas. Let's head down there, and see what we find," Leon announced, and once more was the first to descend down a dark hole. Carrying a torch, he was easily able to light up the corridor. Matt went down next, and was surprised to find a very narrow and cramped hallway ahead of them.

"Well, this is a change of scenery," Leon joked, holding the torch high. There were no dusty footprints here; this section of the cairn had obviously not been disturbed for a long time.

"I was hoping it would be more...spacious," Matt complained, ducking underneath a stone support.

"Not the best place for tall people. Let's stay in a line, and try to press on."

The narrow line slinked through the dark corridor. Torchlight flared upon the ancient walls, casting dancing shadows that were mesmerizing and terrifying at the same time. Matt had never considered himself to be incredibly claustrophobic; he didn't like caves, but he could stand to be in them. However, he was beginning to feel crushed right about now, hemmed in by thousands of tons of stone.

"I think it opens up ahead," Matt said, looking over Leon's shoulder.

"Looks like it."

The corridor did not become wider; rather, it emptied them into a large, semicircular-ish room that was seemingly empty. It appeared to be the main part of the cairn, with closed iron sarcophagi lining the walls and massive, intricately carved pillars holding up the weight of the roof like multiple Atlases. A chilly, unnatural fog filled the entire space, thick and almost soupy in nature. It concealed the back part of the cairn.

"Do you think this is where the team ended up?" a guard asked, and he was silenced by his captain.

"Hush. We don't know..."

"Captain Loyhrs?" Leon inquired.

"Yes sir?"

"Take three of your men around the wall. I don't know how big this room is, but I'd like you to get me a good estimate," Leon ordered.

"Aye sir. Rogers, Carpenter, Blaythe, with me. Let's do some geometry," Captain Loyhrs ordered, and three of the armored men clanked out of formation, following their captain.

"I can't say this place makes me feel comfortable," Rykar commented from behind as the remainder of the men filed into the foggy room.

"Me neither. Can you even see the ceiling?" Matt wondered aloud, glancing up. The top, wherever it was, was shrouded in the thick mist.

"Don't need to see the ceiling, just the floor. I'm going on ahead," Leon announced, and the group shuffled awkwardly behind him. Matt noticed, quite strangely, that no dust had collected on the floor here; this area appeared to have been used in some recent time, although it was entirely possible that the expedition teams had come down here and disturbed the cairn.

"We're still going!" a guardsman from somewhere in the fog called out. "It's still wrapping around, looks like it's a semicircular room..."

"Who knows how far they'll go. I hope they don't stray off," Leon muttered under his breath, nearly tripping over a hunk of rock sticking up out of the relatively smooth floor.

"We...found the back wall!" someone cried almost instantly afterwards, a bit distant. Instead of hurrying over to wherever the sound came from, Leon proceeded another twenty feet until he was able to see the back wall, which was just straight-up stark stone.

"Oh. How pleasant. More stone," Matt snorted sarcastically, coughing as dust entered his throat.

"It's not bare, that much is certain," Leon realized, as Captain Loyhrs and his men reappeared from the veil of fog. "There's...an altar of sorts over here."

"An altar? Like, for prayer?" Matt asked, as Rykar and Loyhrs came in to take a closer look.

"I'm not sure. I've never seen something like this. It's design is so incredibly simple..."

Essentially, it looked like a medium-sized cube cut out of hardwood and furnished with a bit of finish. It appeared to have been used, however; several scattered flowers lay on the surface of the altar, along with some kind of wicked steel sacrificial dagger and several drops of scarlet blood.

"Someone's been here-"

Figures erupted out of the thick fog like pouncing predators, wiry black shapes moving as fast as striking serpents. Most men would flee or die on the spot; however, the guardsmen had been trained to fight, and had been prepared for some kind of assault. The guardsmen who were not felled by the swift ambush gathered up in a loose circle, shields and swords at the ready, backs to each other.

Matt was pressed into the center of the throng by armored men backing into him. He had difficulty gaining control of his feet for a moment, but he was able to shuffle awkwardly into the inner circle and drew his own sword, direly wishing he had his own shield. When one of the guardsmen fell back, knocked back by a blow from something heavy, Matt automatically took his place to fill in the defensive circle.

Matt shouldn't have been so terribly surprised-he had been forewarned, after all-but the presence of the skeletons was still shocking. Legends told of the undead roaming Minecraftia millennia ago, until their extinction at the hands of humans. And now they had been woken from a restful slumber, and did not seem too happy about it. The malignant necrotics surrounded the circle of armed warriors, waiting for the best chance to strike. A few of them struck their maces or battle axes against shields, but to no avail.

"Aye, a bunch of dead bones? Is this all that's down here?" Royce taunted, and his cry was echoed by a few of the braver men. They had never seen skeletons before, but the soldiers kept their heads calm as a few of the undead began to launch team attacks, lunging out and striking at the soldiers. But the circle held steady, each man doing his best to face each threat.

And then the fireball ripped through the group.

It narrowly missed Royce, blazing through three men and throwing them backwards into Matt and several others. The crush of the bodies forced Matt to the ground, and his head hit the hard stones with the force of a massive rush of air bowling into his back. He sprawled onto the ground, losing his wind in the process. Matt struggled to stay conscious, even as one of the skeletons closed in on him. He had the sense to grope for a nearby shield and, after narrowly parrying the undead's blade, come up to a half-standing position and raise the shield in defense.

The circle had broken; some dark humanoid figure in the fog had cast the fireball, and left two men dead and another on fire, trying desperately to put the flames out. The other men fought off the relentless undead; some died, some stood tall and pushed their enemy back. They were outnumbered, that much was clear.

As the skeleton swung its blade, Matt swung his, but it was obvious that his sword was of little use; the steel clanked off of the undead's pelvis, only serving to make it angrier. In desperation, Matt bashed it with his newly-acquired shield, and realized that the heavy wooden oval worked wonders against the fragile bones of his opponent. Another shield bash relieved the skeleton of its sword arm, and a third broke it to pieces.

Matt swung around to parry the attack of another skeleton as someone shouted an inaudible order. Men fought beside each other, trying to form a circle again or lashing out at their opponents. Matt used his shield to his advantage, bashing his enemies as they attempted to flank him and strike. The shield came in handy for both defense and attack; left without a useful weapon other than it, Matt came to rely on the blunt object. Another fireball roared through the room, bowling one soldier down and narrowly missing another. The shadowy figure was visible for only one moment, shifting between roiling fog, before it disappeared behind another wave of skeletons.

Matt was determined to fight his way towards the shadow that was dodging in and out of the fight; the men had found their footing, and were now bringing the fight to the newly-arrived skeletons. Matt, edging closer to one of his friendlies, bashed a skeleton back and stooped to retrieve a warhammer dropped upon the ground, either by one of the Ditch soldiers or by one of the revenants.

The steel weapon was heavy, but the swinging blunt object gave Matt a huge amount of power. He let the weight of the metal give his swing more power as he smashed a fragile skeleton to pieces, shattering and dislocating bone with a single powerful swing from the hammer. Another went down, and another; the shield provided Matt with a way to deflect blows, even though each strike against the hide cover reverberated through his arm and stung, and the warhammer allowed him to strike back with a fury he had never known before, a fury borne of cold steel and hot cruor.

And then he came face to face with the darting shadow. It was not merely a trick of the light, but a robed man, in his mid-forties about, with rough skin and thick facial hair who seemed just as surprised to see Matt as Matt was surprised to see him. Matt lunged at the surprised mage, who leapt out of the way just in time to dodge the warhammer but received the full-force blow of the shield to the gut.

Matt fell forward, carried by the force of his charge, and the mage fell to the side, his wind knocked out of him by the force of the shield. Both men took a moment to recover and get back on their feet; at range, however, the mysterious mage had the advantage, and his palms erupted into orange flame, which spurted out at Matt like a flamethrower jet. The hide rim of the wooden shield caught ablaze, forcing Matt to drop it before it began to consume him. He was faced with no other option but to charge in and face his opponent head on.

Flames scorched his armor and clothing, but Matt rushed headlong, losing his warhammer somewhere along the way as he rushed blindly into the heat of the mage's flames. He reached his arms around the waist of his opponent and threw the last of his remaining forward momentum into the soft, fleshy, robed form in front of him. The flames disappeared, and they hit the ground hard; something snapped.

The mage was surprisingly strong; he bucked his hips upward and threw Matt off balance, before landing a powerful blow to the centerpiece of the cuirass. Matt fell back, but not entirely off, and threw wild punches at his opponent's face, desperate to draw blood. As his mailed fist connected with soft flesh, lightning lashed out from the mage's hand and lanced up Matt's arm, attracted to the metal armor. The shock threw Matt straight off of his enemy, flattening him against a hard stone wall and taking his wind.

Stars flickered before his eyes, a vacillating blackness around his iris, as he coughed and gasped for breath. Battle raged on the other side of the room, steel against steel and the clanking of bone. Matt heard footsteps approaching him, and grunting, and he reached out for a nearby stone, his hand seeking some kind of weapon...

The malevolent figure stood over Matt, grunting and shuddering, dripping blood from his smashed face. Matt's head spun, but he shot his arms out around the mage's legs and brought him to the ground. The last thing he remembered before falling to the side and losing consciousness briefly was raising the heavy rock above his head and bringing it down once, twice, thrice upon his enemy's face, smashing it to a pulp. Four times, five, six, sweat dripped down Matt's brow, stinging in his eyes and tasting salty in his mouth.

Seven, eight, nine times, blood splashed up from the broken face and spattered upon Matt's shiny armor.

Ten, eleven, twelve times, and the deed was done. Matt sank off of the body, closed his eyes, and when he woke he saw the face of Rykar hovering above him.

He closed his eyes and let the strong arms pick him up and bear him into the air.

VVVVV

"How many days left, James?"

Kastner raised the cup to his lips, and drank of the sweet wine. He sipped it slowly, savoring the taste of the sweet red as it flowed over his tongue.

"Three weeks, the geologists say. They did an impressive study," Kleiner answered, standing at attention. He was now a guest in Elias Kastner's guest room; he felt uncomfortable, waiting to hear from his lord.

"Three weeks to move millions of people. Why haven't we started?" Kastner asked calmly.

"They...won't leave, my lord."

"We have no choice but to evict them, Kleiner. You know that as well as I do," Kastner said.

For weeks now, Kleiner had been plotting against Kastner. Elias had grown older now, and was in no fit shape to rule a kingdom; Minecraftia was not a kingdom yet, but most lords owed themselves to Kastner. He was, in many ways, a nobleman to rule all of the noblemen. He kept a tight leash on most of the lords, but his grip was slipping now. He had failed to rein in Lanos and Renn, and now he had paid the price.

_Many are angry about this breach of peace. They will no doubt turn their ire towards Kastner_.

Kleiner felt jealousy sometimes; Elias was powerful, had the allegiance of dozens of lords and ladies, and had a massive military command at his fingertips. A man would be envious of all of that; he couldn't help it sometimes.

_I mean to change things here. Kastner is not fit to take control_.

"Citizens will resist-"

"Put the guard upon them. It's for their own safety," Kastner shrugged.

_That won't be popular with the people, I can tell you that_.

"It will be a chaotic mess," Kleiner warned.

"What other kind of mess _can _there be?"

"This will not go over very easily," Kleiner warned again, more sternly this time.

"I am well aware of the issues I face. I want those people moved, somewhere, anywhere. Why not Milltown, or Crestan?"

"Neither of those are large enough," Kleiner argued.

"What about both, then?"

"It's...hardly feasible, the logistics of such an operation-"

"Then make it feasible, James," Kastner began to sound more impatient. "There are nearly five million lives on the line here. Three weeks, get them out of the volcano's path. You will not be alone."

"You haven't sent any other assistance my way," Kleiner noted.

"Not yet. There are very few men I can spare, Lord Brennan will be here within five days."

"It will not be enough-"

"It will do. I can spare nobody else, not with Antar marching for war. Empty this city, Kleiner, and I will be in your gratitude," Kastner spoke, before bidding farewell and leaving the room. Kleiner was forced to leave as well, and returned to his own villa with a heavy mind.

_War is coming upon us...the volcano rumbles...we have three weeks to clear this damn city out_, Kleiner thought as his guard escorted him through the twisting streets of New Connaught. The faces of the citizenry around him reflected their moods; sullen, unhappy, brooding.

_They're about to be evicted from the city they call home. How could they be happy?_

Kleiner's villa was, thankfully, separate from the main body of the city's residential area and slums, a quiet and tranquil lot set against the river. The water stank of sewage and shit, but Kleiner could deal with that; it was better than living amongst the dirty slums.

"How was Kastner?"

Lord Thomas Brennan was already waiting in the entrance hall, his escorts standing beside him awkwardly. Brennan was, technically, supposed to be assisting Kleiner in clearing the city out and evacuating its people. But he had taken Kleiner's side politically as well; he was all for removing Kastner from the seat of power that the latter was attempting to attain.

_Kastner wants control. No matter how earthly and godly he is, he desires to rule over Minecraftia. Such a thing cannot be._

That was where Kleiner felt envious once more; in his wildest dreams, _he _was the ruler, the king, the noble who sat above all other nobles. In his dreams, he commanded the mightiest armies on the planet and had the grandest treasury of gold at his fingertips. But only in his dreams; that could very well be a reality for Kastner.

_Unless we stop him. Too much power in one man's hands...even in the hands of Elias_.

"He seemed determined to clear the city out."

"Indeed," Brennan replied. "He has been adamant on that point for weeks now."

"The pressure's increasing. We both want New Connaught evacuated, but moving five million people...nearly impossible..."

"That's why I was sent to assist you, yes?" Brennan asked.

"You are here to assist me in bringing Kastner down. That was the real reason that you were sent for," Kleiner reminded him.

"Of course, my lord...to destroy him-"

"Not destroy him," Kleiner reprimanded. "Remove him from power. It is too late to cut him down, he needs to be removed from nobility completely. He will become too dangerous soon enough."

"What do you plan to do, then?" Brennan inquired.

"The people come first. This city needs to be emptied, the threat from the volcano is very real..."

"I agree wholeheartedly, my lord."

"The question is where they go," Kleiner thought aloud. "Five million people, five million refugees, five million mobile mouths to manage and feed...the logistics are exasperating."

"If you would please to leave the logistics to me, my lord?" Brennan asked. "I am talented at such things."

"What would you do?"

"Disperse the masses," Brennan replied matter-of-factly. "Some to Milltown, some to North Driftmist, some to Crestan. I can arrange for the Crosshatch Company to provide food and pay them back later."

"You and I both already owe a hefty debt to Crosshatch," Kleiner warned. "And so does almost every other lord in this land. Kurnias, Cymander and Walker are the only ones free of such a burden."

"Debts can be paid off at any time, my lord," Brennan mollified him. "I'm certain that Crosshatch would...provide some duty-free assistance for such a situation like this? They themselves will have to evacuate their headquarters, and we will be the ones to provide for their customers and employees, will we not?"

"That is not enough to sway them," Kleiner said. He knew that; Crosshatch lived for money, and they were always inquiring about debts. He himself owed them a castle's worth of silver just for the extra army he had raised for the coming war.

"This can be dealt with later. What of Kastner, then?" Brennan asked.

"I must continue to appease him. He thinks that I am an ally. He does not trust Cymander, or any other lord for that matter, not even Kurnias. He trusts only me."

"Such a sad mistake," Brennan shook his head.

"How would he know? I have been on his side ever since Sophia Caullon's rebellion, and he gained my trust back then. He has every reason to trust me."

"And every reason to be suspicious," Brennan added.

"You act as if I mean to commit treason," Kleiner narrowed his eyes.

"I would define such action as treason, yes."

"Is it treason if it's done for the good of the nation?"

"You are crossing a fine line here, James," Brennan shook his head. "There is a difference between betraying your oaths to save the nation, and betraying your oaths for personal gain."

"Don't presume to lecture me on such things. I understand the difference."

"I'm sure you very well do, my lord," Brennan appeased him. "I know that you can distinguish right from wrong-"

"And I will. I intend to remove Kastner from power, before he gets too far."

"And who would you replace him with, my lord?" Brennan asked.

_I would put myself in that position_, Kleiner wanted to say. It was what he desired; but he could not tell anyone else.

"I have not decided yet."

He made himself sound firm and honest, but Kleiner saw the glimmer in Lord Brennan's eye, that tiny expression of doubt.

"As, as you say my lord," he bowed awkwardly. "I'm sure you know who is fit to lead us."

"Of course," Kleiner replied tiredly as Brennan prepared to leave.

In James Kleiner's discerning eye, there was only one man who was fit to lead all of Minecraftia. And that man would be him.


	14. Swampheart

**Hello internet! This is a very special chapter dedicated to our good friend and writer Mellifluousness, who has recently been putting her effort into multiple projects and deserves a good tip of the hat!**

**That is all.**

**REVIEW ANSWERS:**

**EclipseWolf64: Is Kleiner evil? Ask yourself that question. And yesh, the Sky Army recruit lost his head. I enjoyed writing that scene...it was inspired by evil :3 As for the ideas, Kleiner is too power obsessed to do anything smart, and Aleesha is just...yeah. Thank you!**

**Angelo234: There will be mages in the future (most of them evil or neutral), and the ruins are remnants of an ancient civilization that forms the basis of KatrinaLinden's story "The Diaries of Kiera", which you should check out sometime. It's short, so not much reading you'd have to do :P**

**HPE24: Matt shall take his extra sugars. And yes, no budder sword. That gets you a decapitation c: Thanks for your review, no matter how short!**

**VVVVV**

For ages, Swampheart had stood as a beacon of light in a dark, dreary swamp.

The city had changed over the ages; dozens of times its walls had been expanded or renovated, to provide a defense against the faceless threat that now stood as the scourge of the swamp. The defenses of Swampheart were mighty, but the outside lands had fallen to the invaders.

The Rose Line of Swampheart led back thousands of years, to the first Rose Leader who had earned a reputation as the strongest leader that those sturdy walls had ever seen. Generations of Rose leaders and Rose kings had defended the banners of their city-state, protecting the swamps and the plains that surrounded the walls. The 845th Rose Leader was now in charge of Swampheart, and had led the city with skill befitting a true king.

That was, until the invaders showed up.

A little less than a year ago, they showed up out of nowhere. Armies of zombie pigmen, hulking, thick-skinned, violent brutes organized into tribes and led by some shadowy force that pulled strings from behind. The pigman tribes had torn apart the countryside, killing anyone who hadn't fled to the safe confines of the Three Fortresses or Swampheart, and were now besieging the city. Endermen had been spotted within their ranks as well, malevolent monsters who seemed to be under the power of the same controller, the shadowy man who controlled the pigmen.

Commander Jarret Wilming stood atop the stony battlements of Swampheart's western wall, watching the army of primeval porcine warriors milling about on the plains, tending to their camps. They had held those positions for almost four months now; the last assault on Curveclaw had left their host battered and bloodied, and now they nursed their wounds while their scouts silenced any couriers that the city sent out. The city was trapped; able to survive the siege for quite some time, but now almost completely isolated from the rest of the world.

"They're moving again, Lord Commander," an archer pointed out. Indeed, a small troop of pigmen, barely visible from the parapets, was moving off in the direction of Voidmouth, about ten miles from the main camp. The massive moat surrounding Swampheart had not been filled in yet; bridges traversed the width of it, but they were rickety and small. Bones lay scattered around the tall stone walls, grim testaments to the thousands of pigmen warriors who had vainly dashed themselves against the flagstone.

"They should be no problem. A foraging party, perhaps," Wilming observed.

"Shall we report it?"

"Do so, but stress the insignificance. It's nothing more than a foraging party."

Indeed, the small scouting pack was heading down to a local spring to draw some water; since pigmen did not drink, they were probably using it for cleaning or cooking purposes.

The archer had already departed, jogging down the stairs into the complex network of hallways and storage rooms that lined the interior of the wall. Behind them the great stone city of Swampheart stood proudly above the muddy maroon mire of the murky marsh, a beacon of civilization in an otherwise wild place. The main feature of the city, the citadel of Old Strongrock, stood upon a natural hill, above all other buildings in the city.

"How many would you estimate there are out there?" a familiar voice asked, and Wilming turned around to face Knight Lord Garrett Washburn, a stout old warrior with a gray mustache and graying hair. He was old, older than fifty, but Washburn still stood proud, coming from a fighting family with a warrior's lineage.

"Countless."

"Have you even tried to count?" Washburn jested.

"Wouldn't even bother. Why, you think you can take them on?" Wilming asked.

"Give me five hundred good knights, and I'll shred them like an autumn leaf," Washburn laughed. Despite his joking attitude, Wilming had a feeling that, if given the chance, Washburn would not decline such a brave charge. He was a chivalrous but foolish man, given in to hubris whenever his mounted soldiers were mentioned.

"You wish you could," Wilming shook his head.

"I could do it, with good steel and brave men."

"There are simply too many. You'd be overrun in a heartbeat," Wilming argued.

"I think you underestimate me, Commander," the knight lord chuckled, slapping his colleague on the back heartily. "Why, a few hundred good men and a good rallying cry, and we'll send bacon back to hell, where it belongs!"

"Why are you here, Garrett?" Wilming asked, tired of the egotistical malarkey. That shut the boisterous Knight Lord up, and he scrambled to find the true reason for his coming.

"Ah, yes...Rose Leader expressed a desire to speak to you. In person, up at Old Strongrock," Garrett said.

"Strongrock? Did she say what she needed me for?" Wilming inquired.

"She requested you, and that was it. I wouldn't suggest rejecting her request," Garrett chuckled.

"Ah, of...of course, yes," Wilming stuttered, suddenly realizing that he was becoming flushed with nervousness. He maneuvered past Washburn and several of the archers, disappearing down into the barracks and storage cells of the wall.

The streets of Swampheart had become empty ever since the siege began. People tended to stay inside the relative comfort and safety of their own homes, trusting to the vigilant defenders of the walls to protect them from the horrors that lay without. Some were out and about, visiting the marketplace or hauling goods or visiting neighbors, but they looked sullen and downtrodden, their faces tired and worn.

_They've seen too long of a siege. They are haggard, and they yearn for peace_, Wilming noted mentally. They would not see peace until either the city or the invaders were destroyed. If one thing was certain, it was that this would be a fight to the death for somebody.

Normally the entrance to the stairs leading up to Strongrock would be barred and guarded, but the bars had been removed and the guards allowed Wilming through instantly.

_They recognize me. After six years, they finally recognize my face..._

The wide stairs circled up the hillock, admitting Wilming to the plaza of Strongrock. The stone fountain that sat in the center of the square had dried up long ago; the aquifer had run dry, like most that the city sat upon. Much of their water was diverted from springs deep within the swamps, brought to the city by plumbing lines, but the fountain had long since run dry.

Guards parted for him as he passed by them, entering the citadel itself. The tall stone corridors and buttresses made him feel engulfed and consumed within the mighty fortress, and the lack of torches made it even worse. He felt a bit relieved as he entered the warm, humid chambers of the Lower Castle, where Rose Leader could be found in her small courtroom, as always.

As of late, Rose Leader had taken to pacing the long hall of her courtroom, muttering aloud to herself. She was not insane, but the pressure of relieving the siege of the city and protecting its people had begun to wear on her. Wilming, having seen her from the sidelines several times, was well aware of this; this would be the first time she had personally summoned him to her court.

Even the guards of the courtroom admitted Wilming. He found Rose Leader unexpectedly sitting in her throne chair, looking rather bored.

"Took your time, Lord Commander?" Rose Leader inquired as Wilming entered the room and bowed stiffly.

"I came as soon as I received the summons, your ladyship-"

"Knight Lord Washburn must have been slow. Age handicaps him, I suppose," she drawled. She was of Minecraftian origin; no Rose Leader had ever been from Earth. They were all sons and daughters of Swampheart, carrying the blood of the Rose Line within them.

"I rushed here to answer your summons. What need of me do you have?" Wilming asked.

"Oh, everything, Lord Commander," Rose Leader laughed, slouching to the side of the throne. "Everything has gone wrong. Can you fix it?"

"Er...no, I cannot-"

"No man can. It's preposterous to even think about it," Rose Leader laughed again.

"What need do you have?" Wilming inquired again, more direct this time.

"What's the latest report from the wall? What have you seen with your own eyes?" she asked.

"The enemy bides their time. They've learned a thing or two after trying to take Curveclaw after we installed the _tormenti_," Wilming replied.

"How many thousands of them fell before our might machines of war?" Rose Leader rambled eloquently, smiling and standing up from her chair to orate. "They learned a lesson there."

"Unfortunately. Now they know better than to throw themselves against our walls. They play the waiting game, my lady."

"They surround us on all sides and make camps, hoping to starve us out," she said.

"Aye, they do. After what they've suffered, I don't blame them for holding back and waiting."

"We have stores of food for two more years. What do we have to worry about?" Rose Leader asked.

"When those two years run out, what then will we do?" Wilming asked, thoroughly irritated now.

"They'll be broken by then-"

"You put too much faith in something that is unlikely to happen. Who will aid us?"

Rose Leader had no answer for that; she stopped for a moment, ruminating, and then sat back down, her eyes darkened.

"Nobody..."

"We have no allies any longer. It is us, against that monstrous horde encamped outside. We stand alone. The Rose Line faces a dark and bloody end."

"I am well aware of the gravity of the situation. I...try not to think about such things," she admitted, slumped over in defeat.

"Now is not the time to ignore what we face, my lady," Wilming warned. "They will either starve us out, or they will overrun us. Unless we call for help."

They all knew that the couriers were not getting out; there was simply no way they would make it. The runners were useless now; it was time to approach the situation from a different vantage point. But how?

"The couriers. Are they a lost cause?" Rose Leader asked.

"I am afraid so, my lady. We are well and truly surrounded by our enemies, there is no way out."

"Those poor men, sent running off to their bloody end..."

"They died in the service of the Rose," Wilming reassured her. "Let us make their deaths _not _in vain."

"I had a plan for that," Rose Leader said. "I...thought about it. But it is such a risky gamble...we stake our chances on something so small...that is why I called upon you."

"Pray tell me your thoughts, my lady," Wilming urged her.

"One last bat remains in the aviaries of Strongrock. We...have never had many bats in the swamp, but a few have always been kept. Now we are down to one, the last bat in the city..."

"You want it to send a message out?"

"To New Connaught, preferably. But to anywhere-nobody knows we're besieged, we've had no contact with the rest of the world. All our hopes must be placed in this bat," Rose Leader said. "It is...our last chance to get word out-"

"You want me to dispatch the bat?" Wilming asked.

"I shall write a message. Give the bat the message, it will know where to go if you tell it. New Connaught, Lord Commander...get our pleas out..."

Wilming waited as Rose Leader rose from her throne and proceeded to her writing desk, where a civil servant brought a slip of parchment and a quill. She dipped the quill daintily in the ink, wiped a smudge of it off on the wood of the table, and busied herself with writing. Wilming waited for several tense, awkward moments before Rose Leader finally plopped the quill back into the ink container and shook the parchment to dry the ink.

Wilming was not allowed to see what the note said; that was not for his eyes. He would only be a medium, a delivery man for the note.

"You know who to take this to," Rose Leader spoke.

"Is Wendell down there?"

"As he always is. Do be hasty."

The Lord Commander had no more to say; he accepted the parchment clumsily, bowed deeply, and raced off, up endless flights of stairs, up to the lone tower in Strongrock. The aviary rested in the only stone tower, which protruded from the squat citadel like some sort of mountain's peak. There was nothing in the tower but the stargazer's veranda and the aviary; only two different rooms.

Wendell, the old keeper of the aviary, was in the same spot as he always was, sitting at the rocky window that exposed the greenish swamp outside. One could see for miles from that vantage point; Wendell, in his old age, liked to sit by that window and ponder when his services weren't required. Wilming hated to disrupt him, but he had no choice.

"Wendell."

The old man nearly jumped at the sound of Wilming's voice, but he regained his composure almost immediately. He was almost entirely blind; he relied mostly on his knowledge of the aviary to get him around, and allow him to feed the birds and the bat.

"Ah, Lord Commander...I'm sorry, I wasn't expecting-"

"And I was not expecting to come up here. The matter is urgent, unfortunately."

"Ah, yes," Wendell sputtered awkwardly. "W-what is the matter? Do you have a letter with you? What do you want me to do with it?"

"From Rose Leader. Where is the bat?" Wilming asked.

"The b-bat, my Lord?"

"The last living one," Wilming reminded the elderly man impatiently.

"Right, of course...does our Lady need to see her?"

"The bat is going to do what it was born to do. We need a message to get out," Wilming told him. The old man's cloudy eyes turned towards the Lord Commander, and became even hazier.

"F-fly it?"

"This is our last hope. The couriers cannot get out, we are well and truly besieged."

"The b-bat, it, it cannot h-hope to fly," Wendell stuttered. "It is o-old, and it has never, never really been t-taught professionally. Early in, in life, y-yes, but-"

"It does not matter how old it is. This is our last chance, Wendell," Wilming warned.

"You are pinning all of your hopes on something so small..."

_Exactly what Rose Leader said. If the bat even flies...who's to say that help will come our way? We've never been close to any of the Minecraftian lords, and they've never been great allies of us. It's almost certain that we're on our own_.

"We must pin our hopes on something, Wendell. Otherwise we have nothing left to fight for."

The man hobbled over to one of the cages, muttering, "Pin your hopes on something logical, Lord Commander. This will never do."

"These are Rose Leader's orders," Wilming reminded him. "Not mine."

"Our Lady should perhaps question what she puts her faith into," Wendell muttered under his breath, but he obliged the order and removed the brown bat from its cage. The tiny mammal looked rather pleased to be free; it glanced from one man to the other, excited to be able to spread its wings, and it chirped happily as the aged caretaker allowed it to gently rest on his arm.

"He's aged, going blind now. Like me, I guess," Wendell chuckled.

"He can still fly, correct?"

"Yes, he can fly...I've let him out to fly before. But going so far away...it is unlikely that he will ever return," Wendell warned.

_The last bat in all of Swampheart...are we really sending him to his death?_

"R...Rose Leader's orders are clear," Wilming stuttered. "The message must get out. The survival of our city depends on it."

"You would sacrifice one life to save one hundred thousand?" the keeper asked.

"As many times as I need to."

"What about your own?"

Wilming struggled to answer, but gave up in the end.

"Give me the bat. Let's attach the message, our Lady wants it off as quickly as possible."

"Yes, of course...I had forgotten, this is an _urgent _matter..."

The Lord Commander could sense indisposition, but Wendell obliged his order and attached the message to the bat by tying a small pouch to the creature's leg and placing the parchment inside. The bat was apparently unused to this; it struggled and tried to fly away until the pouch was safely secured on its leg.

"I do not have high hopes for this, Lord Commander. He has never flown so far-"

"He is our last chance, Wendell. Please...he must go."

The keeper slowly approached the window and, holding the bat out, whispered a few words in its ear.

_Bats can understand where to go if you tell them...some old magic, something older than any of us..._

After speaking the words, Wendell released the small mammal and it flew off into the malachite sky, disappearing within a few minutes. Wilming watched the bat sadly as it vanished, their last hope flying off to a distant city where few would even bother to care.

"You've sent the poor beast to its death-"

"He will be the salvation of Swampheart, Wendell. Take heart."

Wilming sensed that the old caretaker would never take heart about the loss; he felt it would be prudent to leave the old man now, and return to this post at the wall to monitor the state of the siege.

The bat continued to fly off into the distance, carrying the last hopes of the city of Swampheart with it.

VVVVV

He was a skulker by nature; not only was it his profession, but it was his nature to hide in the darkness, to hide his shadow from others. He was stalking an even sneakier man; the hooded advisor, the civil servant to Lord Alex Tanner, who had evaded apprehension for weeks now. Every time the spy tried to spring the trap on his prey, the mysterious man disappeared or managed to get away. It was infuriating, but this was his moment of truth, the one moment when he could prove himself to Lord Kleiner...

The hooded man turned the corner into the alleyway, disappearing into the dark shadows of the slums of New Connaught. The skulker knew these streets well; the wharving district along the river was a seedy hotbed of crime and illegal business, places where spies and sneaks prospered and flourished. He had been down that alleyway before; there was only one way out, and it was now covered.

He masked his footfalls, walking light as he snuck into the alleyway and started to crouch down low. Nobody had noticed him; there had been no passerby out this late at night, and his quarry had not realized that he was being stalked. All the better...

And then the hooded, shadowy figure turned the corner. He was good and trapped at that point; there was no other way out of the alleyway. The sneak slipped his dagger out of its scabbard and slunk up to the corner. Ever so carefully, wary of being noticed, he peered around the corner of the abandoned tavern and peeked back at the dead end.

Empty. Completely empty.

Something was...wrong. _Everything _was wrong-there was nobody at the dead end of the alley. He had just seen his quarry come around the corner, spelling his own fate by entering the little back lane. There was no other way out of the alley-impossible...

A rustle behind him, and then rough arms grabbing him around the neck and back. Cold steel, sharp as a razor, was pressed to his exposed throat. The hunter had become the hunted, and caught.

"You're a good sneak thief, I will give you that," the calm, high voice leered. "I hardly noticed you until a week ago."

"Who the hell are you-"

"And who are you, sneak?" the other man asked.

"You...I saw you, go around the corner, I had you trapped-there's, there's no way out...of that alley-"

"Some men make their own ways out," the hooded man smiled. He flipped his hood back only slightly, and Kleiner's spy could make out the tiniest hint of purple in those eyes.

_Enderborn...they're supposed to be...dead..._

"I make my own exits. Time to make yours."

The blade rasped and skin sliced. And the wharves fell quiet once more.

VVVVV

Matt woke up with almost no feeling in his body. He could breathe, he could think, he could see as his vision adjusted, but he could feel very little. Almost not at all.

He had dreamed, violent and raging dreams of blood and dirt and sweat and dark places. Strangely, the most prominent thing about them had been Aleesha; she had been all over inside his fever dreams, for reasons he could not understand.

_He hated her...and yet he couldn't stop thinking about her. Why, though?_

"You nearly passed out back there, Matt. You lost a lot of blood," a familiar voice, identifiable as Rykar, said wearily.

"I...can't feel much-"

"Eh, you lost a lot of blood. That's expected."

"What...happened?"

"You got a dagger stuck up into your thigh. Dunno how it happened, but that's not important-you bled out quite a bit before we got you topside."

"And the others?" Matt asked.

"Right behind you," Royce said hoarsely, and Leon stepped into the hospital room.

"We're all alive. A few of the soldiers were killed, but not in vain," Rykar smiled.

Matt grunted and rolled over, shaking his dreams away as consciousness returned fully. He was able to feel a dull, throbbing pain low in his thigh.

"I...can feel a wound down there-"

"You must not have been able to notice it before. The blade went in pretty deep, I'm not sure how it got in there," Rykar commented. Leon came to the bedside, still dressed in his battle armor and gear.

"You feeling alright, Matt?"

"A little...woozy, that's it," he replied, shaking sleep away. His dreams still taunted him...

_Aleesha...I hate her, no, I hate her...but why did I think about her?_

"That's expected. One of the healers will give you someone to relax your mind. The wound is already cleaned and bandaged," Leon said.

"I'm...starting to feel it...it burns," Matt groaned, resisting the urge to reach down and scratch at the affliction. It was itching and burning now that he was fully awake.

"Just don't touch the puncture spot. The healers bound it up so it won't get infected."

Rykar took his leave from there, thumping Leon on the shoulder in a brotherly manner. Before the latter could follow, Matt called him back in.

"Leon...can I ask you something?"

"Yeah...sure...what's troubling you?" Lord Walker turned around, back to Matt's bedside. Royce was either ignoring them or he had fallen back to sleep on his hospital bed.

"I was curious about your immortality..."

"The gift of a curse, eh?" Leon mused. "What about it?"

"Are you...'mortal', sort of?"

"I'm afraid I do not understand," Leon shook his head.

"I mean...in combat, in that cairn, I saw you throw your safety to the wind and charge into that mass of undead...that was near suicide. Could they have killed you?"

"I am not immortal in that sense," Leon replied. "I will not die naturally, but, say if a blade were to pierce me, I would die. That is the limit of my immortality."

"Then why did you charge in like that, with no reservations?" Matt asked, still driven by curiosity to know what drove Leon to act in such a reckless manner.

"What would I have achieved by standing behind my men to protect myself? I would look like a coward and a craven," Leon explained.

"So...you charged?"

"To serve as an example to them. The lord who hides behind the armor of his own warriors is the coward. The lord who dashes before them and is the first to cross steel with the enemy is the prime example of a _vir bonus_."

"So...you have no regard for your own safety, even though you are _technically_immortal?" Matt inquired further.

"I have no qualms about my own safety. Caution has gotten me nowhere in life; keep that in mind, Matt."

Leon tapped him gently on the shoulder, in a fatherly manner, and walked out of the room, leaving Matt behind in the darkened resting chamber of the hospital to nurse his injury.


	15. The Horns of War

**Hello internet.**

**This is not a good day. You might say it's a terrible day. Just have the review answers and this chapter .-.**

**REVIEW ANSWERS:**

**HPE24: Yes, Swampheart and it's bats! Thank Mellifluousness for all that stuff, of course! AND THEY CAN CHIRP IF THEY WANT :u  
Angelo234: Well hello! Thanks for reviewing! And yes, they are aware that the Nether exists, but it's pretty much closed to them. Much like the Aether, its secrets were locked away a long time ago, leaving only a healthy collection of Nether resources in the Overworld.**

**dgmnfangirl080: Excused! Thank you for reviewing! And both your map and TMC inspired me to include the Haven in the story, and it will play a larger part later. And yes, mages and budder swords c:**

**VVVVV**

Snow swirled in droves, rising up over the mountains and sailing with the wailing wind 'round the sharp peaks.

The Pass, as it was colloquially named, as the easiest way to get from North Driftmist to the old Delphos territory; it was shunned, however, because of the fierce blizzards, the hostile tribes, and its proximity to Thompson territory.

Two of those factors were negated; Dom served Lord Thompson, and the tribesmen did as well. An army of forty thousand marched at his back, eager to seize the riches of a fortress they had never heard of.

They would sack North Driftmist, certainly, but the city of the misty hills was not the true prize. They would only pass by it.

"Eldremen? Eldremen? Where are we at now?" Dom called to his guide. The aged tribesman hefted himself through drifts of snow, unmounted.

"The Hag's Peak," he answered gruffly. "Not far to the other side, no, not far."

"How many kilometers?"

The guide was stumped by the question, visibly confused. Dom shook it off, figuring that the tribesmen had no idea how far they had traveled.

"Never you mind. How long will it take?"

"Another two days, sir," Eldremen rasped.

_Two days...two days until I get this army out of the damned pass. It'll only be another week and a half from there._

He would lead his army through the Pass, through the damnable snow, and to their final destination.

_The Ditch. Forty thousand men are going to take the Ditch..._

He prayed that Thompson's plan would work out in the end, and with Eldremen's council continued to lead the army forward, forward to their final target: the Ditch.

VVVVV

Matt woke up in a wave of sweat; his eyes stung as droplets of salty sweat ran down his forehead and cheek.

_Another dream...they come every night..._

Ever since being committed to the Ditch's healing rooms after his injury, Matt had been subject to wild dreams every night, dreams of Harvesters and shadows and war and whispers.

_And Aleesha_.

She was always present in his dreams. During the day, he couldn't stop thinking about Sora, about where she was, how to find her. But when he dreamed, and turned and tossed in the middle of the night, Aleesha came to life in his subconscious.

Matt felt heat between his legs, the warmth of lust for the woman in his dream, and groaned as he pushed his body up to survey his surroundings. The healing ward was nearly empty; Royce had been moved to the other side of the room; he was now fast asleep, snoring quietly. Two other men had been placed on the far side of the ward, and that was it.

Matt, ignoring the dull throbbing of his manhood, stood up and threw the covers aside, shaking his head. He felt warm, but not feverish to a ghastly degree; sleep had made him woozy and thirsty, and in his state of semi-conscious dehydration he stumbled out of the healing ward and into the stone-cut hallways of the Ditch.

It had been four...no, five days since the fight in the cairn, and Matt's wound was healing well. But it still pained him to move his leg, even as he walked in his fatigues down the long corridor. There was nobody awake to stop him; the city was asleep at this hour. After going down several flights of stairs cut into the stone, Matt found the main entrance area, and the veranda.

Two days beforehand, Rykar had taken a sicklier Matt down to the veranda, an overlook that gave one a full view of the city and the ravine. That was when he had still been bedridden with a fever, and his dreams had been wilder; he was tranquil now, able to find his own way to the outlook and sit down in one of the cold stone chairs.

The sheer face of the ravine rose up, pocked with holes small and large, a city carved into ancient rock. The sheer size of the Ditch could only be appreciated from within its impressive maw; one could look both up and down, and see the black void and the navy blue night sky. Moonlight seeped from the crack in the earth, shining down upon the sleeping city and casting dark shadows upon the smooth walls. It felt like floating in a peaceful, haunting dream.

"Trouble sleeping?"

Rykar's presence was startling; the corner of his mouth twitched in a shadow of a smile as he stepped into the room, armored and armed.

"I-yes-"

"I thought you'd be awake. You've had rough nights before."

"I couldn't sleep at all," Matt admitted, still thinking about his dream.

"Are you feverish?"

"No, not at all...just a bit warm," Matt said, placing his hand upon his forehead. It came off sticky with sweat, but he did not feel any excess heat.

"The doctor said the wound is not infected. They were able to treat it in time with a poultice and some herbs," Rykar said from the doorway.

"Is that why I don't have a fever anymore, then?" Matt asked.

"I would suppose so," Rykar shrugged. "No infection, no fever. You'll probably be cleared in a few days, as long as nothing else happens."

"Eh. Don't jinx it," Matt groaned.

"You should get back to bed. If the healer knows you've been out and about, he'll keep you in here for another week."

"I'd like to see him try. I'll be better by then," Matt grunted in reply.

"Not if you keep getting up at this hour to go and stare at the damn moon," Rykar chuckled dryly. "You'll catch a cold out here."

"You're too damn insistent," Matt grumbled.

"If it gets you back in bed," Rykar laughed again. "I'm supposed to keep a watch on you. Royce is sleeping, so it's up to me."

"Alright...but I can't sleep. I dream so much, and I sleep too much during the day-"

"We'll get it all worked out for you. Get some rest, and I'll bring the healer back in the morning."

Matt begrudgingly left the moonlit balcony and shuffled off after Royce, back to the warmth of his chamber.

Morning brought the healer, who came in at the crack of dawn to examine all of his patients. Although he wasn't a modern "doctor" by any means, he had gone through two years of medical school in England before leaving for _MINECRAFT_, and he had a knowledge of remedies and medicine that was quite advanced despite his lack of equipment or tools. He examined every single patient, finally coming to Matt.

"How are _you_feeling?" he asked when Matt inquired about his injury.

"Er...fine, I guess. I feel alright..."

"You don't have a fever, and your wound is still not infected. I'll patch it up with another poultice, and we'll get you out of here," the healer announced.

Poultices, herbs, and leeching were common remedies amongst the healers of Minecraftia. However, the illicit pharmaceutical trade from the NMR was present, if very trickle-down, and the healer of the Ditch had at least a small supply of antibiotics and pain pills that he ascribed to some of his patients. After examining Matt's wound once more and re-wrapping it with a fresh, sterile bandage, he handed him one pill of ibuprofen before leaving.

"It might hurt now that you're walking on it, so if it pains you tonight, take this with some water. Nobody can know about this; I doubt it will cause an uproar, but it's still illegal. Take it _only_ if you're feeling pain in your leg. If you feel unwell again, come back," the healer instructed before bidding Matt farewell.

The Ditch felt sort of alien again; having been away for several days, Matt felt uneasy walking through those streets once more. Instead of heading to his apartments, where Royce would be soon, he decided to go on down to the Vault, just out of simple curiosity.

Nobody tried to stop him on the way down, but Archlibrarian Higgins was at the front desk, and inquired about his business in the Vault.

"I'd...like to see the pendant again. I was curious about it," Matt admitted, figuring that lies would get him nowhere and would break his bond of trust with the Archlibrarian. His request wasn't refused outright, but it was met with limited suspicion.

"Alright. I'll go down there with you."

The Archlibrarian led the way, his heeled boots tapping loudly on the granite floor of the Vault. Row upon row of safes and bookshelves towered up to the arched ceiling, giving it the appearance of a giant maze of mysteries. Higgins held the key to each one of them, but his destination was the back of the Vault.

A massive _walk-in_ safe was where the pendant was kept safe, along with other treasures of the Ditch; Higgins chose one of the six master keys and inserted two of them into two separate locks, which activated the mechanism.

The door required a large amount of strength to open, and both of the men had to grab a handle and pull back to unveil the iron chest's contents.

"You have...guns?" Matt asked, confused. Rows of firearms; shotguns, pistols, revolvers, SMGs were hung by hooks, all neatly ordered and arranged.

"Yes, it is a far flung rumor that the Ditch has a stock of illegal firearms," Higgins sighed, as if he had told this story a thousand times before to other ignorant wretches. "Well, now you know the truth."

"Isn't that...illicit?"

"Very much so," Higgins rolled his eyes. "Regulators come and go, but they never find any evidence. They don't look hard enough, and they cannot enter the Vault."

"What are they for?" Matt asked.

"Self-defense," the Archlibrarian replied. "You wanted to see the pendant, no?" he asked, annoyed.

"Yeah...yes, the pendant..."

The Archlibrarian guided Matt inside the iron vault and to the back of the safe, where several display cases held precious objects. The pendant was one of them; it was sealed within a small safe of its own, which was encased inside one of the displays. Another key ring was used to open these, and the Archlibrarian gently produced the pendant from inside, holding it like a delicate treasure.

"What did you want to see it for?" he asked, now that it had been taken out.

"I wanted a closer look. I never got to look at it in a...scrutinizing light before," Matt said.

"I would take it down to the underlevel study chambers, but I cannot trust anyone else with it. It stays here."

He lit one of the braziers, which threw strange silvery light across the room, and held it up in the light.

"Why do you want to see it?"

"Investigating...I was curious, maybe that was something more about this that I hadn't seen before..."

"Good luck doing that," Higgins scoffed. "I can't see anything, and I've got a very discerning eye."

"It just looks like an ordinary pendant, still," Matt sighed.

"Were you expecting something to happen?" Higgins asked, slightly curious.

"No...no," Matt replied, and the Archlibrarian's curiosity withered and died.

The next three days passed without much activity. News came and went by bat and courier; New Connaught was being evacuated due to a waking volcano, Brackwood Keep was under siege, Lord Antar had called all of his forces to the Crossing, and Kenly had suffered a minor defeat close to the Haven. Matt went back down into the mines, taking an auxiliary job as a porter carrying tools down to the mines. Test chamber was reopened, but under watchful eyes.

"Glad to see you back on your feet, Matt," Kellan greeted him on his first day back. "Are you...feeling better?"

"Loads," Matt replied. "I'm glad to be out of bed."

"We're glad to have you back, Trevor was concerned about you...we all were, and Parker's glad to have you back on his squad," Kellan smiled. Matt had no idea who this 'Trevor' was; he turned out to be one of the younger miners, a hearty and hale boy of sixteen who was simply full to bursting with cheery optimism, something that was hard to come by in the depths of the Test chamber.

Aleesha buzzed around like a mosquito, but she did not bother Matt. He kept his eyes on her more often than he liked; nobody noticed, not even her, but he knew that, unconsciously, he was watching her every few moments, taking a creepily unusual interest in her. He tried to distract himself with work, bearing tools from one end of the chamber to the other.

But Kellan noticed; after their shift ended, as Matt hung his gear up, the other boy sat down on his bench as he was removing his boots.

"I noticed you today. What's up?"

"What?" Matt tried to feign innocence, knowing full well what Kellan was getting at.

"Aleesha. Your eyes wander, man," Kellan smiled deviously.

"I...don't know what you're talking about-"

"Yes you do. I won't mention it to her, or anyone else. But..._why_?"

"It's...I dunno, I just have that kind of feeling," Matt sighed, exasperated.

"You love her?" the other boy asked.

"No...I don't..."

_I love Sora. I don't know how I feel about Aleesha..._

"So you want to f-"

"I don't know about that either," Matt snapped, shaking his head. "Just...don't inquire about it. And please don't tell anyone else."

"Yeah, uh, sure man," Kellan backed off, slightly offended. Nevertheless, he and Matt parted ways in a friendly manner, and the day after that nothing happened.

Talk of the cairn had spread rapidly throughout the miners, who had developed some sort of fear of the bronze dome. The Test chamber was being expanded to the sides instead of down; Overseer Payne, having learned about the events that had transpired down in the burial chamber, had decided it was wise to expand out, and not down.

But the day after that, Matt was possessed to take another look at the pendant. Something about that little trinket, locked away under Higgins' care, drew him, and he approached Leon early in the morning and asked for him to come down to see it. Lord Walker had taken a personal liking to Matt; he was inclined to talk to him often, in a casual manner, unlike most of the other feudal lords of Minecraftia. Happily, he agreed with Matt, and expressed a desire to go down and see the pendant himself, providing that Archlibrarian Higgins would permit them to take it down to the study rooms.

There was little that Higgins could do to refuse his lord and benefactor; Rykar Bergensten came along just for the hell of it, desiring to see the pendant with his own eyes. The Archlibrarian admitted them into the safe, and then led them down underneath the Vault itself, to study rooms where they could place the pendant in a safe location and scrutinize it.

"I am the only one who is allowed to touch it," Higgins announced as they stepped into the room and Rykar closed the door behind him.

"Well, see what you can see, then," Matt said.

"What are you looking for, precisely?" the archlibrarian inquired.

"Something, anything. Scrutinize it under a microscope, if you need to," Leon told him. The microscope was illicit, another piece of NMR technology that had been smuggled in; Matt knew that none of this equipment could see the light of day.

Higgins slid the pendant under a small microscope, one powerful enough to zoom in on the pendant and look at it in depth but not powerful enough to see anything smaller than the point of a pen.

"Anything of interest?"

"Scratches, and writing of some sort," Higgins remarked, staring into the microscope.

"Er...writing?" Matt's attention suddenly increased.

"Something inscribed on the _inside _of the pendant. Since it's slightly translucent, I can see the scribbles, but I can't read them. It's like there pendant is..._encasing _something, and there's writing on that."

"Can't you zoom in any more?" Leon asked.

"I'm afraid I cannot, my Lord. It's illegible unless we crack the outer shell open. There's no way I'll be able to read what's on the inside," Higgins admitted.

"Damnit...well, that's-"

"Can we crack it, perhaps?" Matt said.

"I wouldn't take the risk. We know almost nothing about this, and it could be more useful in its current state," Higgins explained. "I would not damage it at all until I've put some of my apprentices to the task of studying it and taking notes."

"You're going to let others handle it, then?" Rykar asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I will be watching over them. I cannot do the work alone," Higgins shook his head. "I need my assistants handy."

"What do you plan to do with it?" Matt asked firmly, feeling protective of the stone.

"Study it, take notes. No drastic action."

Matt felt uneasy allowing the pendant to leave it's safe of safekeeping; he begrudgingly stayed silent while Higgins had a hushed word with Leon, who nodded his head several times. Afterwards, the Archlibrarian took the pendant, gently cradling it in his aged hands, and made his way deeper into the study rooms, asking for Lord Walker to send several assistants down to help him.

"They'll find something on it, I'm sure," Leon said.

"What could those letters be, though? _Someone _thought they were important enough to hide them in there," Matt mused.

"Somebody wants to keep a secret. I pray that we may unlock it soon," Leon spoke, before they departed.

VVVVV

The horns of war had sounded, and the men had been mustered.

Elias Kastner sat mounted above the host, which spread out on the plains west of New Connaught. The land was alive with activity; soldiers and civilians, each moving to different places. People were streaming out of the city, either refugees bound for some new home or soldiers bound for one of the giant stinking tent cities in the grassy plains.

The combined forces of Kastner, Kleiner, Brennan and Rolf had been gathered here; North Driftmist had only recently pledged its loyalty, as Lord Rolf came down with his host of 12,000. Crestan had yet to provide troops, even though it had made a pledge, and Milltown, Edmonton, Shadeshore, the Ditch and Moon's Eye had yet to say anything, to name a few of the silent houses.

"Sixty thousand. That's a little more than a quarter of what Antar possesses," Kleiner scoffed, sidling up to Kastner.

"It is still a fine army."

"I would expect maybe half of this lot to put up a decent fight. Many of Brennan's men are drafts or temps, men who can just leave the sim whenever they please. A lot of my soldiers are green as well," Kleiner admitted.

"I cannot vouch for most of my men being extraordinary at combat," Thomas Brennan chimed in. "But they're good soldiers, and the temps are eager to see some fighting. Death is only an inconvenience for them."

The three of them dismounted their rides and handed them to stable boys, who took the mounts in. The command tent sat upon a hillock overlooking both the city and the tent army, at the base of the rumbling mountain.

"What news from Braxton?"

"Nothing, my lord," Kleiner answered.

"And from Eastwood?"

"Lord Tanner sent five hundred pikemen. They're arriving in three days," Kleiner reported.

"Five hundred pikemen? That's almost as bad as sending a 'good luck letter'," Brennan snorted.

"He stated that he had been skirmishing with Brad Thompson and needed to keep most of his troops home," Kleiner said.

"Bullshit. He just wants no part of a war," Brennan spat.

"He owes Lord Kastner, remember?"

"Yes, his father's memory...but what does that mean to a prat of a teenager?" Brennan asked.

"I will deal with Alex Tanner when the time is right. He has 20,000 troops, now is not the time to put him on the wrong side of the conflict," Kastner settled the matter.

Although he was not the true king of Minecraftia-nobody was-Kastner was loved by the people and was the closest thing to a regent there was. Power, money, popularity; he had all of them. If he could win the war against Antar, the regency would be within his grasp, and so would control over every other lord who bowed to him.

"What Lord Tanner does is not of our concern. The time to move is now. We can move to Crestan, pressure the city to pledge loyalty to us, and hopefully move on with 70,000 men, if not more," Kastner said.

"Seventy thousand will _not _be enough to take on Antar-"

"Then what would you have me do, Lord Kleiner?" Kastner asked, once again irritated by his underling's disagreeable demeanor. "We cannot sit here."

"And we cannot move against him either! We _need more time_!" Kleiner stressed.

"There is no more time. Antar will act, he has the upper hand...we need to beat him back..."

Kleiner's bid for power was waning. His goal had been for Kastner to fall, while he defeated Antar and took the glory, and perhaps kingship, for himself.

_I am the only man fit to rule Minecraftia. Kastner is not aggressive enough...the land needs a man like me, a man of action..._

However, the way things were turning out, it looked like Antar was poised to just smash them all and claim Connaught territory for himself. Other lords would resist, certainly, but what could their limited numbers do against Antar's mighty army of two-hundred thousand?

"And how would you suggest that?"

"What of the news from the other places? What about Milltown? The bats were there long ago," Kastner said.

"Milltown has not sent back a response. No doubt Lord Willum thinks that the siege of Brackwood Keep demands his attention more than the threat at the Crossing," Kleiner replied grimly.

"And nothing from Edmonton?"

"Lord Fisk has not replied yet. The bats should've been there yesterday, though, so it is possible for him to reply."

"There will not be enough time...we need to march," Kastner growled.

"You're the impetuous one now," Kleiner pointed out.

"Then what would you have me do!?"

"Two days. Wait for bats to come in. If two days pass, then march to Crestan, and wait another two days there."

"Forty eight hours is still an awful lot of time," Kastner disagreed.

"We have bats ready to move from the Crossing. If there's an attack, we will be notified," Brennan, who had been staying quiet, pointed out.

"Not in time. It's almost four weeks to the Crossing, with an army this large," Kastner grumbled.

"But won't Antar be slower? He has two hundred thousand men, plus a massive baggage train. We'll be faster than him no matter what."

"Aye, that's something to count on," Kastner begrudged. "But seventy thousand against two hundred thousand...what chance do we stand, really?"

"What do you have in mind, then? You're the leader, my lord," Kleiner said.

"I say head to Crestan in two days, and wait for the city council to decide whether or not to support us. If not, we march on."

"What do you have in mind, if not the Crossing?" Kleiner asked.

"We'll head to the Ditch. And that is where we'll meet our foe."


	16. Warlords and Whispers

**Hello internet!**

**We're without our dear Mellifluousness for two weeks, since she's very busy, so no updates from her at the moment.**

**Instead, you have me. Ha.**

**Anyways.**

**REVIEW ANSWERS:**

**woohooman14: Yes, suspicious things are everywhere! And you can tell a big battle is coming...**

**Angelo234: Yeah, there's a battle brewing. And don't worry, I haven't forgotten about the bat yet. He'll be crucial in due time. Sora will be seen once more.**

**And yes, TDoK is pretty awesome! I would suggest reading KatrinaLinden's other works as well!**

**HPE24: Humans vs. humans is the best. So much emotion from both sides. And yes, Aleesha does stuff like that. She just likes to make trouble XD**

**EclipseWolf64: I have no idea how to answer this. TOO LONG, TOO LONG I SAY.**

**I'll just PM reply to this, it'll be easier :P**

**Renndude: Leon's supposed to be more official now. He's a leader, and he's less of a desperate, aloof young man. Still, I think he's pretty cool. But thanks for reviewing!  
Also, Darius was granted immortality. And someone else who is still mysterious.**

**VVVVV**

Matt's dreams lacked their feverish quality, but they were no less severe. He dreamt of hot blooded action, of primal lust, and it was tiring him. Constantly, night after night, he would wake up in a cold sweat, breathing heavily, disturbing the peaceful slumber of his roommates. It was nights like that when he would leave his bed, sweating heavily and caught in a whirlwind of emotions, and dress quietly, so as not to disturb the others. He would leave his quarters and head out into the main hall, abandoned at such a late hour. Not even the guards had bothered to watch over it; they were watching the other entrances, and Matt was free to roam the open space of the main hall by himself, lost in thought.

He would sit on the edge of the hall, open to the ravine, and let his legs dangle over the massive rift, feeling cool air swirl up around him. The smooth slopes, swathed in serene moonlight, put his uneasy mind to a tranquil rest, and allowed him to think clearly. When dawn rose, pale and auburn, and swathed the stone in cool red colors, Matt returned to bed and made it seem like he had not left at all. Rykar noticed a few times, but never approached him until several days after he had left the hospital.

"You're not getting enough sleep, are you?" Rykar asked one morning after Matt returned from the Test chamber.

"I'm fine," Matt warded the question off.

"No, you're not. I can tell; are you sneaking off at night?"

"Just...because I can't sleep," Matt admitted.

"You hardly sleep at all, and you're down in the mines all day. That's not healthy," Rykar warned.

"I know, but I can't sleep..."

He didn't _feel _tired when he went down in the mines for his daily work; now that he had been healing for some time, it was back to the old steel pickaxe, side by side with Kellan and Parker and the others who were expanding the Test chamber. Matt watched work on the chamber unfold at a slow pace every day; a bit of digging here, some quarrying there, the brainchild of Overseer Payne and his unnamed supervisor.

"How's the gash?" Kellan asked one day while they were working together, hacking away at a thick dirt wall.

"Er...it's almost healed now. I don't feel it anymore."

"You still won't tell me much about what happened down there," Kellan said.

"Lord Walker told me not to mention it. For safety reasons," Matt replied.

"Ah, does he want the truth hidden now?" Kellan smiled. "That's not like him."

"He told me not to tell anyone else-"

"If I asked you about it, and I guessed something correctly, would you tell me if I was right or wrong?" Kellan asked.

"I-"

"Did the dead rise?"

"Damn you," Matt hissed. "How'd you know?"

"Overseer Payne has spoken his mind about the burial tomb," Kellan lowered his voice to a whisper. "It seems likely...six men don't just die down in a place like that. I wouldn't believe that a rockfall killed them, or the other investigation teams."

_Some of the undead had been spelunkers_, Matt remembered. _Their deaths only gave that mage more power..._

"It was undead. Now that I've confirmed, can you _not _tell anyone else?" Matt pleaded.

"I won't. Hardly anyone will actually _believe _it," Kellan scoffed.

"Will they?"

"Rumors float around, but would anybody actually believe in an army of the undead? It's preposterous," Kellan laughed. "It's like something out of a cheap horror movie."

"They were as real as anything I've ever seen before," Matt spoke, his voice low. "Horrid...revenants, so close to killing me..."

"Aye, hush! Aleesha!" Kellan hissed, and the two fell silent while she strolled up behind them, to survey their work.

"Having fun, boys?"

"As much as ever," Matt grimaced, hacking away at the soft loam of the earth as he was told. Scaffolding was already going up along the wall, so that miners could reach the ceiling and upper parts of the chamber.

"Back on the job, finally?" she asked Matt.

"Er...yeah..."

"That burial tomb didn't treat you well, hunh?"

"I'll be fine," Matt grumbled. He looked back, expecting Aleesha to be offended by his demeanor, but her lips were raised in a half-smile, a cocky look, as she walked away, seemingly satisfied.

"Man, you can tell she likes you," Kellan scoffed.

"How can-"

"Did you see the way she smiled at you? I did...she likes you, for some reason. It might not seem like it, but I can tell."

"I just figured she was messing with me," Matt shrugged.

"Well, she enjoys doing that. But there's something else behind that smile, and I think she likes you."

"I don't find that very exciting," Matt grimaced, as chunks of cold earth crumbled on top of his head.

"I thought you had a...thing for her?" Kellan asked, confused.

"I didn't say I had one or not," Matt hissed. "I said...I was confused-"

"What about that Asian girl you said you loved?"

"She's dead, probably. Or gone off somewhere better," Matt muttered. He had to face facts now; Sora, as a temporary, would have respawned at her village after the Harvester attack, and come home to nothing but smoking embers. She would have moved on by now, found another home, another man, some other place to live...

"That's a harsh reality for ya," Kellan shook his head.

"It's why I'm torn. Do you understand at all?" Matt asked.

"Yeah, I understand...I mean, kinda. I can see your predicament..."

"I don't know whether I love her or whether I just want to...you know..."

"Yeah, I know," Kellan replied. "She's four years older than you, and you still feel that way about her?"

"I can't help it, Kellan...it's...something," Matt said.

"Hormones, your damned hormones. I know, I know, you can't help it," Kellan sighed, exasperated. "Look, just...try to stay out of her way, okay?"

"Yeah, I know. Nothing good can come out of this," Matt acknowledged.

"I wouldn't lose hope in that other girl of yours...what's her name?"

"Sora."

"Right, Sora...don't give up on her. She might still be out there, you know..."

Kellan's words rang true; Matt knew that Sora had to be alive, since she was a temporary. The question was, where could she be? It was certainly possible that she was hiding in plain sight, possibly even lost amongst the citizenry of the Ditch. But in a world as vast as _MINECRAFT_, there were a thousand different places she could be, mingling with ten thousand different crowds.

He left the mines feeling torn between two girls. He cursed himself for letting hormones and teenage emotions get the best of him at such a critical time; he was pining for two different girls, one of them missing and the other way out of his league. Yet Matt felt hopeless, caught in-between the two, forced to choose a side.

That night, he sat down to a dinner with Rykar, Royce, the captain of the guard, Lord Walker, and a few lesser noblemen who ruled the disparate towns of the Ditch. Leon's dining hall was not a very fancy or outstanding room, but it was nestled into the rock of the ravine and provided one with an excellent view of the other side of the city, connected by bridges of light gray stone.

"There have been messages, my lord. Of marching armies," one of the town mayors spoke up, feasting himself heartily on beef steak and mashed potatoes.

"So I have heard. The bats and couriers bring me the whispers, yes," Lord Walker replied absentmindedly.

"And do you heed them?"

"I read them, yes. Heed them? What is there to heed?" Leon chuckled, forking a hearty slice of pork roast into his mouth. "The spices are excellent, where did you procure them?"

"The spices are beside the point, my lord. What of the news of Lord Kastner's army marching?"

"He is a fool to take on Antar, in my opinion," Leon spoke. "What chance does he have?"

"Will you assist him?"

"Why, what assist could I possibly give him?"

"Er...supplies, quartering..._troops_?" one of the noblemen pressed.

"I see no need to provide any of those. Lord Kastner always comes well-prepared, and his quartermaster is quite sufficient at his job," Leon debated.

"Lord Walker has his own concerns in his city, a war is not one of those," Rykar interjected, and he was received poorly by the other noblemen.

"Yes, I am aware that he is managing a large city, but I'm _certain_, fairly certain, that he can spare troops and supplies to defend our nation," one of them seethed.

"I think it's more of a matter of choice," Leon stated.

"You choose not to aid Lord Kastner, is that it?"

"I do not owe fealty to him," Leon argued. "Nobody does, technically. So I am not obligated to aid him, and while my assistance would certainly be welcome, I have no wish to stand at his side."

"You do realize, my lord, that Lord Kastner is essentially the king?" another posited.

"Essentially, yes. But he is not _the _king. There is no official document proving such. What is your point?"

"If he were the king, you would be forced to provide assistance to him, like it or not," the nobleman said.

"Aye, but he's not the king-"

"You _owe _him loyalty, Lord Walker," the more aggressive nobleman seethed. "If he were not defending the realm, our enemies would fall upon us, as defenseless as we are."

"Kastner is not a king, we are not defenseless, and I owe the man nothing."

The nobleman proceeded to brusquely rise up from his chair, slam his silverware down, and walked out of dinner, his face turning red as he left the room. He had obviously had enough of Leon. The latter did not seem to mind.

"Well, that was unnecessary," he commented dryly, finishing off his own meal.

"To be fair, my lord, Antar will not let you be just because you profess to stay neutral," Captain Loyhrs pointed out. Darius Loyhrs was a mysterious man; Leon had mentioned knowing him from his youth several times, and had even once mentioned that Darius had received the same treatment as Leon himself had. In that sense, the guard captain was immortal, just like his employer.

"Stanislaus Antar can come as he pleases. I would invite him to try and seize the Ditch," Leon smiled.

"We have eight thousand soldiers, and he has two hundred thousand. We're all outmatched," Rykar said.

"Thanks for pointing that out," Leon grumbled. "I know the odds.

"My lord, you need to take a side," Loyhrs urged.

"I _need _to? I hardly think that it is required."

"Antar will certainly smash Kastner, there is little doubt of that. If you do not take-"

"The Ditch _will _remain neutral, as it always has," Leon growled, now thoroughly irritated. "We have always survived by staying out of the troubles of lords and kings, and that is the way we will continue to live."

The others fell silent; Lord Walker's word was final, and the other noblemen of the Ditch stopped pursuing the subject. Matt felt like he was trapped inside of an awkward silence; the noblemen who had confronted Leon about taking a side had fallen silent, no doubt plotting amongst themselves and trying to craft new ways to convince him to fight. Leon had pretended that the entire debate had never happened, and was perfectly happy with dining on his pork steak and enjoying the warm spring air flowing from the balcony.

"Matt?"

"Hmm?"

Rykar had suddenly broke the silence, his food now finished.

"Lord Walker and I spoke earlier. We may have a job that you are interested in. Would you hear me out?"

"What would you have in mind?" Matt asked, intrigued.

"Captain Loyhrs spoke as well. We're interested in seeing if you wish to become the captain's man-at-arms, or his squire," Rykar explained.

"I recollect your expedition down into the cairn a few days back," Darius said from his end of the table. "Your fighting skills may lack prowess and polish, but you've got spirit and endeavour, and you _do_ know the basics of a blade. Those are characteristics I look for."

"What would the job entail, then?"

"You'd be in my service," Loyhrs said. "Think of it as a squiring position. You prepare me for battle, follow me into combat, stand by my side and learn the skills that I deem necessary for you to learn."

"And in time, you would rise to become a knight. You'd have to be a legal adult, but in a few years you would be knighted," Rykar added.

"I would...prefer to have some time to think about it," Matt replied almost instantly, attempting to ward off the question.

_A squire? I'm not very much into combat...I can barely hold a sword, much less fight with one_.

"That's alright. There's no rush," Captain Loyhrs patiently reassured. "I would only like you to consider it thoroughly. I could use someone like you by my side if war occurs."

"Sure...do you mind if I excuse myself?"

Lord Walker gave him his blessing, and Matt rose from the table, his dinner complete.

Instead of heading to the main hall, where Leon often held his assembly, Matt found his way to the central plaza of the third level, the gathering place for the regular citizenry of the Ditch. There were places where one could just sit and watch people walk by; benches lined the plaza, and Matt found an empty one to deposit himself into.

At such an hour, the market and plaza were both thronged by people. The markets, especially the food stalls, were crowded by citizens purchasing food for dinner or browsing the wares, a multitude of voices in dozens of languages. Matt contented himself to resting upon the bench, listening to the throng, and almost fell asleep when someone occupied the seat right next to him.

"Kellan...were you looking for me?" Matt grumbled, rubbing the veil of sleep from his eyes.

"Not really. But I found you, I guess."

Kellan made himself comfortable on the bench, holding a bag of coins in his left hand.

"How did you find me?"

"Well, I just saw you and figured I'd sit down here. I'm usually out on the plaza in the evening, there's not much to do at home," he replied.

"I don't have much to do either. I really...don't know if this is my home, anyway," Matt sighed, exasperated.

"Well, _someone _sounds enthusiastic," Kellan grimaced. "I was going to grab something to eat, you want anything?" He jingled the bag of coins temptingly.

"No thanks, I just ate..."

"Alright, suit yourself. Save my spot, will ya?"

Kellan returned after about five minutes with a steaming hot loaf of bread, and began to dig into it as soon as he sat back down.

"You know, I do miss the variety of food back on Earth. It's just bread and vegetables here, every damn day. Where's my Doritos?" Kellan complained.

"You're a perm, I take it?"

"I'm stuck here, yep. Figured it was better than dealing with high school and a bleak future back home. There's things I miss, but you couldn't pay me enough to go back."

"You came from Dallas, right?" Matt asked.

"Suburban hell, sprawl everywhere you looked. Look left, you'd see a shopping mall. Look right, you'd seen a dozen restaurant chains, and three dozen billboards. It was sickening to see every damn day."

"Seattle was the same," Matt added. "A Starbuck's on every corner, ads peppering the highways and buildings..."

"Yeah, welcome to the modern world. Now you can't possibly wonder why I came here," Kellan sighed. "There are things I miss, but I wouldn't go back to that urban cesspit they call Dallas..."

"How'd school treat you?"

"As well as it treats most kids. Chews them up and spits them out, ready-made, into society. I hated high school, but I got along alright, I guess," Kellan cocked his head. "Everyone seemed to fit into their niche there, and I hated that too. The cheerleaders, the jocks, the nerds, the emos, the punks, they all had their little niches."

"Yeah, that's high school for ya," Matt acknowledged lazily.

"And the ones who didn't fit a niche just fell to the wayside. I suppose I was one of them. You?"

"I managed to stay in the good graces of most of the other students. Probably because I did a lot of stupid shit," Matt chuckled.

"Don't tell me...you were the class clown, eh?" Kellan smiled.

"Sorta. I did that stuff for attention, mostly. My family rejected me, so I figured I might as well try my luck at school."

"It didn't work, did it?" Kellan assumed.

"No, no, it worked just fine, but...it wasn't fulfilling, ya know?" Matt asked.

"What?"

"I didn't like it. I got attention, both bad and good, but...maybe that wasn't what I craved. I can't figure those things out," Matt sighed.

"Hormones getting in your way again, eh?"

"I guess. Hormones, and a lot of other stuff. Damn," Matt cursed. "I hated all of that."

"Same here. The Ditch might not be perfect, but it's a better home than that Texas cesspit ever was," Kellan smirked.

"I'll find my niche here, I'm sure. I suppose I didn't tell you I'm taking up another job offer?" Matt said.

"From who?"

"Captain of the Guard. He wants me to squire for him, not quite sure why...after the whole events in the cairn, I guess, he figured he could use me," Matt explained.

"Ehh...so no more mining for you?" Kellan asked cautiously.

"That all depends on whether or not I accept. I haven't decided yet," Matt shook his head.

"You're happy with your current job, aren't you?" Kellan asked.

"I'm happy, but...the idea of becoming a squire...and the pay it comes with-"

"We'd miss you down in the chamber, ya know."

"Yeah, I know. I'll, uh, let you know what I decide. I should probably get home now, anyway..."

"Alright, well, remember what I said about the job," Kellan said. "We'd love to keep you."

It was very early-the moon hadn't even risen over the Ditch-but Matt felt exhausted, felt the urge to get some sleep. Everyone else in the apartment was still out and about-most likely at Leon's dinner assembly-so he was able to undress and get to bed in peace. There was a lot on Matt's mind, but he was able to drift into sleep without much trouble, setting all of his problems aside for the night.

VVVVV

Lord Kenly had been wounded; a stray crossbow quarrel, one that had nicked his arm just barely, but it was a wound all the same. The monks at the Black Haven could only wrap the wound in a bandage and pray for him; he sat in his council chamber, angry and exhausted, as his councillors argued amongst each other.

"Thompson has the upper hand now, that much we know," the most argumentative head, Lord Worchester, said.

"You assume that he does. His forces caught us by surprise is all," another argued.

"Nearly a thousand of our troops are dead, and almost all of the temps have disbanded. We are now seriously short of defenders," Worchester said.

"There are still good men that hold these walls. We may have lost the outer defenses-"

"But the Black Haven is all that stands now!" Worchester cried.

"I will stand by the statement they we still have good men. Our soldiers are far more experienced than Thompson's," General Corrigan added.

"Has that mattered before, though?" Worchester continued to argue. "We've lost the outer defenses...Lord Kenly himself was wounded! The odds are far against us!"

This was all the result of that one fateful battle several weeks ago, Kenly knew. He had not expected the motley swarm of peasants to rush upon his flanks and decimate his prized army, forcing him on the defensive. He had not expected the early morning attack that cost him the ford, or the Tribes of the Pass rallying to Thompson's banner.

"He is wounded, but certainly not out of the conflict," Corrigan pointed out.

And that was where the hooded advisor came in. He had been standing beside Kenly's chair, watching the assembly with an almost delighted grin spreading across his face. When silence fell, for only a few brief and painful seconds, he took his chance.

"Lord Kenly is, I am afraid, out of the battle for now. His wound requires him to rest," his oily voice said.

"Nonsense, it's only a minor flesh wound-"

"Ah, but exerting himself would only exacerbate Lord Kenly's problem. I am afraid that he is out of action for now."

"You damnable snake-"

"Lord Worchester, please," one of the other councillors pleaded. "Bickering will get us nowhere. Lord Kenly is wounded, yes, but it would be his decision whether or not he wants to fight on the battlefield."

"Right. Alright then," Worchester muttered. "My lord...your word on the matter?"

Kenly grumbled, his head falling slightly. In the dim light from the lit chandelier above, one could see gleaming beads of perspiration running down his cheeks.

"My...lord Kenly?" another councillor asked.

He still wasn't responding clearly, only muttering under his breath and convulsing slightly at given moments. There was something definitely wrong, and Corrigan was the first to rise.

"My lord?"

"He's not responding-"

"Someone get a physician in here!" Corrigan ordered. The attendants, who had been waiting at the entrance to the chamber, rushed out and brought one of the castle's health attendants in. Lord Kenly did not move at all; he sat in his chair, shaking and sweating profusely. The medical attendant put his hand to Kenly's wrist, and then to his forehead.

"He's feverish, that much I can tell. His body is hot."

As if to make a point, Kenly spasmed again, his shoulders jerking rapidly before they stopped moving altogether.

"He needs rest, and leeching. My Lord, can you walk?"  
"I...I am...okay-"

Kenly's first words since arriving at the council meeting were slurred and barely audible; the assistant had to lean low and get in close in order to hear them.

"He shouldn't be walking, not in this condition," Corrigan muttered nervously.

"I would agree with that. You're not okay, Lord Kenly, we need to get you some rest," the medical attendant said. As he was lifted out of his chair by other assistants, he muttered something but did not attempt to resist them. His arms hung down limp from his body like two floppy noodles, soaked with warm sweat.

"Can you take his temperature?" Corrigan asked.

"I don't have the tools for that. We'll get him in bed and leech him, that's all I can do I'm afraid," the doctor warned.

"Alright, that's better than nothing, then..."

"Would you have me do anything else?"

"I'll take care of a guard on his door," Corrigan said. "Make sure that nobody but your own assistants and myself enter that room, and work this out."

"I will have to leech him, it's the only thing I can do."

Lord Kenly, nearly unconscious at that point, was escorted out of the room, hauled out by his own attendants as the councillors muttered amongst themselves. General Corrigan watched all of them wearily.

_They're anxious; they don't understand what has happened, and they're nervous about Thompson_.

It might have just been a passing illness, but it put Kenly out of action for at least a few days, which was worrisome enough. If Thompson heard of this, he would take his advantage; without its lord, the Haven was weakened.

As the councillors milled awkwardly about, speaking in hushed whispers, nobody noticed the hooded snake slip out of the room, unbeknownst to anyone else.

He had other things on his mind. It was an accident that Lord Kenly had taken ill, but that would work towards his favor. He no longer needed to play the part of the humble, slithery spy and advisor to Kenly. One day more, and he would turn his back on Thompson as well.

An accident had turned into a boon; now, with Kenly out of the equation, it was time for the action to begin.


	17. The Pieces Set Up

**Greetings internet! We are still short one Mellifluousness, so I hold the monopoly on that greeting until her return!**

**I would like to mention that I **_**do **_**have a DeviantArt account, with the same username as my pen name on here, but I rarely do anything with it, so I'm just throwing that out there.**

**Cheers!**

**REVIEW ANSWERS:**

**HPE24: I would sum this up as "People are being people". People are terrible, foolish, whatever adjective you'd like to apply. And yes, seventy reviews :DDD It's nice, but I really don't pay too much attention to the number. It's just nice to hear feedback.**

**EclipseWolf64: Eh, I'd say it's less of being tainted and more of being normal. It's what he does, you'd have to be a teenage guy to understand how stupid they are sometimes :P**

**I need to find a way to flesh Matt's romance out without becoming all sappy. Hmmm. Thank you for your feedback!**

**Angelo234: As for the spy, he's going to be one hell of a problem later on. And as for the long update time, things just happened. Thanks for inquiring!**

**WildSmilingPasta: First of all, your name is fantastic, and I don't know where the hell you got it from, but it's amazing. Second of all, **_**thank you**_**for that crazy amount of praise there. Glad to know you're enjoying this!**

**VVVVV**

Today would be a bit more than a normal day.

Well, a better than average day. Perhaps not better, but more exciting, more interesting. The young man with blond hair and sparkling blue eyes knew that as well as anyone else.

He rose and showered in a hurry, taking care to clean himself as well as possible. He had to dress sharply, to have clean teeth, to look proper and civilized before going in. Today would be an "above average" day.

The Swedish sun shone softly through the glass panes that made up the shabby apartment's only window, the only aperture that admitted light into the room. It was a small cell, large enough for the young man, allowing only the most basic necessities; a bed, a kitchen, a bathroom, and a small storage closet. That was all he had needed.

The streets of Stockholm were crowded with busy commuters and pedestrians, going about their business. The man took care to smile at each and every one of them; he knew not a single soul, but he felt quite genial today.

The business district of the Swedish capital was his destination; it was easy to find, the street signs providing every direction that he required. Before long, he had walked all the way to the business district and eventually found himself standing across the street from the building that would be his destination for today.

_Mojang headquarters. Exactly where he wanted to be._

Confidently, he strolled across the street, following the designated walkway like everyone else. There was nobody at the door to Mojang; the front doors were unlocked, unguarded, allowing entrance to anyone. Surely the receptionist would accost anybody who walked in and ask them for an employee card or a guest pass.

_That really won't stop me_, he thought as he forced the glass doors open and took a deep breath of the warm, fresh air of the building.

_Relaxing. Such a relaxing atmosphere_, he thought as he drew the 9mm handgun out. Today would be a good day.

VVVVV~ TWO WEEKS EARLIER ~VVVVV

"I can join the guard too, I honestly think I will."

Kellan was desperately trying to convince Matt that the mining job was better for him; after nearly a solid half hour of arguing, Kellan decided to switch tactics and tried to convince Matt to help him get into the guardsmen.

"I don't think it's the kind of job for you, Kellan-"

"And it's certainly not the kind of job for you," the older boy retorted. "You said yourself, you despise fighting."

"Yes, but I doubt I'll be doing much fighting," Matt grumbled. "It's a squiring position, that's not the same as being a rank-and-file guard or soldier."

"You would be expected to fight, though."

"Yes, but I'm not going to be thrown into a fight like a common soldier. Besides, this could be a potent career path. Leon...er, Lord Walker said so himself, I could rise to become a nobleman through this," Matt said.

"You'd become one of the rich fucks I used to despise. Like CEOs or something," Kellan scoffed.

"Aw, come on now. I wouldn't be a king or nothing. Just...ya know, somebody. Elevated beyond the common people. It's unlikely to ever happen, anyway," Matt conceded.

"Well, if you intend to squire for Captain Loyhrs, then I'm resigning my post and joining the guardsmen. It'll be a hell of a lot better than digging down in Test, anyway," Kellan said.

"Are you sure about that? If you're in the guard brigade, you'll have a better chance of seeing fighting," Matt warned.

"I can handle that."

Their casual conversation had originated down in the chamber and ended up in the locker room, after the day had finished. Matt was exhausted; an entire day's worth of swinging a heavy pickaxe grew wearisome, and his stomach grumbled unhappily as he removed his working boots and placed his regular sandals back on.

"Are you sure about this?" Kellan asked again.

"Yes, I've made up my mind." Matt had already considered the decision, and knew that squiring for Captain Loyhrs would be much better than digging in a deep, dark pit. Parker, the leader of Matt's small mining squad, had taken the news happily, congratulating Matt on his acceptance. A few of the other boys were envious, but none of them were outright hostile.

"Well, er, good luck to you. Is it tonight?"

"A private ceremony. Not much, just a few vows and that'll be it. Are you sure you want to join the guard force, then?" Matt asked.

"Not entirely, but the pay beats this."

"You know it's not easy getting in, even if they have slots open?"

"I know all about the physical test," Kellan retorted. "And the training, too. Six months can't be _that _bad, I'm already in pretty good shape."

"If that's what you want..."

Matt left without another word, wondering why he even opted for this job. He had been quite content in the mines; sure, they were dark and dirty and dangerous. But it paid for his meals, and he had been slowly saving up for the future. He had no idea what being a squire required; he felt nervous as he ascended back up to the main city.

Dinner would have to wait; he was brought back to the Third Level, where in the Main Hall Lord Walker was waiting along with Captain Loyhrs and several of the guardsmen. Once he had entered, he was led before Leon, who required him to kneel down in front of the small chair that served as his throne.

"Kneel now, and receive your vows. Are you ready?" he asked, no longer speaking casually. He had dressed himself in fine lordly clothing for the occasion; Matt felt like it was all unnecessary, but he bowed his head low and focused his gaze on a single spot on the stone floor, waiting.

"Bring me the sword, please," Leon asked. There was a rasp of a blade, and Matt could see a tiny flash of gold in the very far corner of his vision.

"With this blade upon your shoulder, I deem you a squire and an assistant to Darius Loyhrs, First Captain of the City Guard of the Ditch. Repeat the following vow after me: I will uptake this duty, to protect and serve..."

"I will uptake this duty, to protect and serve," Matt repeated firmly.

"To stand by my lord and his lord, and to do their bidding, and to take up arms for their cause, and assist them in battle..."

Matt repeated again, firmly.

"...And to be true and faithful, and honest, and upstanding to my mentor, and to all of his allies be amicable. I shall serve and stand by him until I come of age to be a knight and a master unto myself."

Matt repeated the final line, and as the cold gold rose up off his shoulder, he was ordered to rise.

"You rise in the service of Darius Loyhrs. May you have luck and may fate stand beside you."

There was a smattering of applause from those assembled, and the guardsmen banged the butt of their spears on the hard stone thrice. The smashing sound echoed.

"You will be quartered in the guard barracks from now on, from which you may serve Captain Loyhrs and train with him. There is no turning back now," Leon warned him.

"I know."

Matt still wasn't sure why he had chosen to follow this path; he _despised _authority. Living under the constant pressure from his teachers and the steel boot of his parents had raised him to hate them, hate the people who gave him orders and told him what to do every single day. And now he was submitting himself to a new form of authority, a feudal form, turning his freedom over to a military captain and his liege lord. Why had he done this? The answer still evaded him; it was too late to turn back, anyhow.

"Captain Loyhrs will have you train daily as well as instruct you on armor and weapon cleaning. I also assume he will-"

Lord Walker was interrupted by a runner entering the hall, his footsteps clearly audible on the stone floor. He sprinted into the room, almost running into several of the guards, and arrived right beside Matt, in front of the throne. He bent over, grasped his knees, and gasped for breath.

"My Lord...news...from...the Crossing..."

Murmurs throughout the room; hushed whispers from the few noblemen gathered in the hall. They were whispers of fear, and of apprehension.

"What of it?" Leon asked cautiously.

"Antar's army...marches..."

It was to be expected. When the Crossing was mentioned, Matt had a vague idea of what would have happened; but it took several seconds before the news hit home.

They were being invaded.

"What do you mean, he has crossed? His entire army?" Leon asked, as the hall erupted into furious conversation. The assembly bickered and swore, fretted and argued, shouted warnings and threats and raised their fists in anger and terror.

"Forward units...raided the village at dawn...and he is moving his entire army over," the courier spoke.

"Two hundred thousand soldiers...gods help us," Leon sighed. He sat down in his chair, wringing his hands nervously. "How long ago was this?"

"The news...only arrived today, my lord. His army has had three full days to march," the courier replied.

"They will be slow," a nearby nobleman chimed in. "With two hundred thousand men-"

"Yes, they will be slow, but that is not what matters," Leon snapped. "Assemble the general council, runner. Every mayor, every baron, every nobleman who swears fealty to me. Bring them here, before the day is out. Enlist other runners if you have to."

The courier gave his assent, and dashed back off, parting the crowd as he ran.

"You're all dismissed. Expect to see me again by tomorrow, the general council will be assembled," Leon announced, to a general uproar. He ignored the shouts, the warnings, the anger as he rose calmly and left the main hall, followed closely by Darius and several of his men. Matt felt it would be prudent to follow Darius, and quickly caught up to him.

"As if civil war wasn't enough, now Antar has declared war," Leon grumbled as he entered the dining hall, which doubled as his conference chamber. The guards spread themselves out at the door, admitting Matt in when he came after Darius.

"Do you think Kastner has received the news yet?" Loyhrs asked.

"No, and I don't give a damn if he has. He'll fight Antar because it will make him look like a hero."

"That's a bit of a harsh viewpoint there," Matt commented. Leon shrugged it off.

"Kastner wants power, and this is his chance to seize it. If he can defeat Antar, he can persuade everyone else to submit to him. He'll be their damned savior."

"Do you think he planned for this?" Matt asked.

"No...events just happened to go his way. Whatever happens, he'll take advantage of it. And you," he said, pointing to Matt, "will need to learn how to prepare your liege for battle. Darius, you're going to have to give the boy a crash course in armor and weaponry."

"He has some experience with swords, does he not?" Loyhrs asked.

"Some, but it's very little. I'm afraid he won't be much help on a battlefield at this point. We've got maybe two weeks before Antar moves in on us. I know he'll target the Ditch," Leon said.

"I can fight."

"Not well," Leon rebuked. "And if Captain Loyhrs wants you to stay out of this, then you'll have to heed his word."

"I can train him for a little while," Darius offered. "It will be something. I need to get the guardsmen into shape, anyway."

"Your guards better be prepared to protect this city. The tide will break upon the dam soon enough," Leon warned. "I want you to be as ready as ever."

"I'll have every man prepared for battle within three weeks. That much I can promise."

"Three weeks is too long. But do what you can with what little time you have available," Leon ordered. "Dismissed."

The guardsmen followed Leon as he left the room; Matt had a feeling that those armored knights were with his liege at all times, standing watch outside his bedroom door. It was a bit menacing, to know that your every move was monitored.

"Matt, grab your belongings."

"Hmm?"

"You're moving your quarters, remember?" Darius reminded him. "The guard barracks. You'll be under my ward from now on."

"Oh, yeah...right..."

Matt didn't have much to his name; it was easy to carry the single satchel with his equipment down to the barracks on the fifth level. The civilian quarters stopped at the fourth level; anything below was either industrial or military, and it was quite obvious. Drilling fields had been mined out of the stone, and the barracks camps were carved out of stone as well. It was similar to the city itself, except smaller.

As they walked, Matt passed several drilling fields; each one had companies of guardsmen or soldiers at arms and at attention, being inspected by their captains.

"They're preparing for war," Matt noticed.

"I've given the orders. We're at full deployment now, all reserves have been readied and mustered. Everyone knows that the Ditch will be Antar's target."

"How come?"

"Strategic value," Darius answered dryly. "And it's pretty foolish to leave a fully-manned fortress behind your army. Antar knows this, and he knows that the Ditch would make a fine stronghold to solidify his conquests. He wants our city."

At one single barked order from one of the drill captains nearby, an entire company of armored pikemen slapped their arms against their legs, stood at attention, and repeated his order loudly, three hundred voices in unison, nearly deafening.

"He won't have it," Matt said.

"Not without blood."

Although he wasn't quartered in the regular guard barracks, Matt's dwelling was still pitifully small, and of course it was hacked out of the stone. At least the bed looked comfortable, and the pisspot was in a separate room from his bedroom. It was better than having to sleep on a straw mat in dingy communal dwellings, at least.

"Best get yourself some rest, tomorrow I'm going to have you training," Darius cautioned.

"Two weeks isn't going to be enough time, is it?"

Darius hesitated, before shaking his head.

"We'll be fine."

Matt knew it was a lie, but did not press any further. He unpacked his belongings, and two weeks began counting down.

VVVVV

The news arrived by bat; the tiny creature alighted from the sky and landed in the aviary, where the aviary master brought the urgent message to Elias Kastner. The other news arrived by courier-a message from Brennan's camp, back in New Connaught. Kleiner's servant, the spy, had been found dead in a back alley; that was disturbing news, but not nearly as distressing as the other message.

"What is it?" Kleiner inquired, upon seeing the red parchment. The color marked it as urgent, above everything else.

"Antar's crossed."

"There is no doubt?"

"He's seized the other side of the river," Kastner grumbled, "and he's moving his men. He will have his entire army across the River by tomorrow."

"Goddamnit..."

"Has the Crestan council made their vote yet?" Kastner asked, sitting down at his conference table.

"No motion. Another impasse," Kleiner sighed.

"Then we will have to move without them."

"We'll be severely outnumbered!" Kleiner argued, bristling.

"We already are."

"We need _more _men," he growled. "Our forces are not enough, even if Lord Walker agrees to fight with us!"

"And would you sit here and wait while Antar lays waste to the western lands?"

"I would not face him with less than a hundred thousand men," Kleiner replied calmly.

"I have to face him, no matter how many soldiers I have at my back. I have to stand up and save this realm," Kastner said.

"For what? For your own good?"

"For the good of my people," Kastner growled. "The millions of refugees streaming out of New Connaught, the millions spread across the province, those are _my _people."

"They're mine as well! Do you presume that they all bow to you? _You're not the king_, Elias."

"Not yet. But this land needs a king-"

"_IT DOES NOT!_ It does not need a king! We've thrived for hundreds of years without a king, just read the histories! And here you think you can come along, and you think the world needs you to unite its people-IT DOESN'T!"

"This time is different," Kastner countered. "We've never been threatened by something this big before-"

"That doesn't automatically crown you! Goddamnit, Elias, open your fucking eyes! _You're being eaten by power! _You hunger for it, and it's consuming you!"

"You're mistaken. I'm in control of myself, and I know what is needed of me."

Kleiner would have drawn his blade and driven it through his liege at that very moment, had a messenger not entered the tent right then. The young, blonde-haired twig poked his head into the tent; both of the lords turned towards him, expecting a message.

"Ah, the bats returned from Lord Fisk empty handed. Lord Tanner's troops have not arrived yet, either," he reported.

"Goddamnit," Kleiner spat onto the ground.

"I had a feeling that this would happen," Kastner muttered.

"Well, what do you propose we do now? We cannot hope to march against Antar," Kleiner argued.

"Lord Brennan told me to inform you that the Crestan council had made their decision. They have agreed to devote half of their numbers to your operation," the runner interrupted.

"That puts us even at 70,000," Kastner figured up.

"It's still not enough-"

"We can wait no longer. As slow as he is, if we wait any further Antar will have taken the Ditch and Dunnefold, and possibly even Skyle. We cannot risk it."

"Your hubris will be your downfall," Kleiner growled, clenching his fists, but Kastner ignored him.

"Outnumbered, yes, but we can seize the tactical advantage. If we get to the Ditch before him..."

Kleiner wanted to provide a counterpoint, but he knew that the Ditch would be Antar's primary target; that fortress could not be left standing, it was too risky to leave it in neutral or enemy hands.

"Lord Rolf's forces were ready to move this morning," Kleiner added. "If he's ready-"

"Then we're ready. Courier, tell the Crestan council to assemble the rest of their arms. We're marching today."

VVVVV

"When you hold a shield, use it to cover your body, not your head," Darius advised. Matt had been training for roughly two weeks now; he had been learning how to wield a sword and a shield, the basic weapon of a guard sergeant. The most recent exercise, something he had been doing ever since he arrived in the barracks, was to hold his shield up for half an hour, break for ten minutes, and then do it again. His arm was exhausted, shaking like hell, but he held the heavy square shield up, breathing heavily.

"Hold it tightly," Darius ordered, smacking the facade of the shield. "An opponent's blow will come in heavy and punishing, you'll need to take it."

Matt restrained himself from muttering a curse and sucked in his breath, holding the shield firmly and preparing for a trial blow.

Darius struck the rim of the shield, but Matt was prepared for the attack; he braced his arm, and let the wooden frame absorb the strikes. After several swings, Darius backed off.

"Good, good. Your strength is improving. Your arm is shaking, but you're holding up rather well."

Two weeks of this drill, day after day, had allowed Matt to become used to the tension that built up in his biceps, and he had reached a point where he felt the pain, but he did not drop the shield until the exercise was over. Across the training field, Matt saw every other guardsman doing the same, except they held spears in their hands instead of a sword.

Kellan had dropped his job in the Test chamber and had joined up with the guard force, as he had promised. His brawn proved to be an asset during training; his strikes were powerful, his arms were strong, and he wore his armor without any issue. Matt's lanky and wiry frame was more of a liability, and he was still accommodating himself to the weight of the chainmail he wore to training.

"You're distracted. Don't look at your brothers," Darius warned, and to support his caveat he smacked the shield unexpectedly, taking Matt off guard.

"Eyes forward. Don't let them stray."

The training had been difficult so far; but Matt felt more at home with a sword and shield than he did with a pickaxe. The other guardsmen had become accustomed to his presence, and were even beginning to greet him by name. He was a stranger no longer.

"Alright, shield down. Ten minutes of rest," Darius shouted. Every single man on the training field, lit by the torches hanging from the ceiling, let their shields fall to the stone floor with a deafening clatter.

"Get some water, and let your muscles cool for a bit," Darius suggested. "Nice work."

Darius may have been a strict trainer who never let his trainees slip up, but he was fair, and he rewarded those who fought for their accolades. Matt found his way to the cistern, flowing with the crowd of sweaty, smelly, exhausted men towards the only source of water in the barracks. Several men manned the cistern, ladling water into iron pails and handing it to groups of men, who would chug it down like they were dying of thirst.

Matt waited patiently for his turn to grab a drink; he was not particularly thirsty, and was patient enough to allow several of the men to go before him. He had not been in line for naught but a few seconds when someone tugged on his arm; he almost jumped into the air, whirling around to face the burly man who had grabbed his attention.

"What-"

"The Captain needs you. He called for his squire," the gruff guard grumbled.

"Er...alright..."

Matt had just left Darius a minute ago; what did he want _now_?

He knew it wasn't any good news when he found the captain fitting his ridged helmet on and attaching the crimson sash to his armor, which draped over his cuirass and displayed his rank. He was surrounded by an armed guard, men with spears and shields in hand and ringmail covering their bodies, with fluted helms atop their heads.

"Well, you're punctual, I'll give you that. Were you summoned by Olaf?"

"Is that who-"

"Good. Keep your armor on, grab your helmet, and follow me. I need my squire by my side, Lord Walker said so."

"What's happening?"

"We've got visitors. Our good lord Elias Kastner," Darius grunted, shouldering a shield onto his back. "We'll get our horses and ride out with Lord Walker to meet him. It's just nobility business, our job is to stand there and look pretty."

"Aye. I can, er, do that..."

Matt stood by Darius' side as they were escorted by the armed guards out of the barracks. He was thirsty, but he ignored that for the time being and tried to avoid the eyes of the other grunts who stared at the column as it marched solemnly out of the underground training field. They had to ascend stairwells one by one, and cram into the elevator that took them up.

The entire city seemed to be in some sort of commotion; Darius had already ordered the guardsmen posted up in the city to be on patrol, and as they walked across the great bridge that led to the gate Matt could see actual soldiers, bedecked in heavy steel armor and bearing swords, standing at the gateway.

"Lord Walker is waiting at the entryway, Captain," one of them hailed Darius when he approached. "Horses for you and your retainers are saddled and readied, sir."

"Stand watch here. Be prepared for our return," Darius ordered. Only five of the men had horses; Matt, acting upon instinct, found the horse that was dressed for the captain and led the bay out of its stable. Other retainers had their own mounts, and Matt had to walk by his master's side as the heavy gates opened and admitted them into the fresh spring air outside.

Only when the group crested the hill did Matt realize that they had more than just visitors. The plains to the east of the Ditch were _crawling _with soldiers and people, and it stank horribly when the wind blew in his direction. A small party up on the nearest hillock flew the banners of the Ditch; Matt assumed that was Lord Walker and his escort, waiting.

"You took your sweet time, captain," Lord Walker censured him politely.

"I apologize, my lord..."

"Our visitors seem to be taking their good time as well. You're fine, captain, you're fine," Leon said, smiling.

"Have they just now arrived?" Darius asked, still astride his mount.

"They're filtering in from the west. I knew Kastner would be marching out when I heard Antar had departed from the Crossing. I don't know which one is worse," Leon mused.

"Does Kastner mean to besiege us?" Darius asked nervously.

"No, I think not. Unless I give him the wrong answer," Leon smiled.

"Try not to give him that."

"Oh, no, captain, not at all," Leon smiled even wider.

The horses whinnied anxiously, the men shifted and breathed heavily. A hot sun bore down upon them from above; in the distance, out by the smelling sea of tents, a small party emerged from the makeshift barricades, on horseback.

"Nice to see you again, Matt," Leon said offhandedly.

"Oh, er, yeah...nice to see you too, my lord..."

"Training been treating you well?"

"Just fine-"

"The boy shows promise. He's a good trainee, and he's been performing his duties well," Darius reported.

"Well, looks like our visitors finally show up. Smile for the 'king', gentlemen."

Their assembly waited patiently as the group bearing the banners of Kastner marched slowly up the hill. When the great lord finally came into view, he appeared haggard and frail, his eyes puffy and bloodshot.

"Lord Kastner. It is good to see you again," Leon attempted to sound welcoming.

"Don't don a pleasant masque for me, Walker. Let's speak on honest terms, none of this bullshit," Kastner rebuked.

"Ah...well, that changes things, doesn't it?"

"You know it does. If you're not with me, you're my enemy," Kastner declared.

"It's not logical to deal in absolutes."

"Don't tell me what's logical and what's not," Kastner rebuked again, more firmly this time. "My enemy is days away, and I need to know where your loyalties lie."

"My loyalties lie to the people of the Ditch, and nowhere else. I am their sovereign lord, and it is my sworn duty to protect them and keep the peace," Leon answered honestly.

"So if your loyalties lie with your city, then they lie with me. Did I not have your oath of fealty before?"

"You never asked me for an oath, and I never gave an oath."

"But you are ordered to answer the call to arms if the realm is threatened? The entire server is threatened, Antar plans to seize Connaughtshire. And you plan to break your oath by standing aside?" Kastner asked, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

"I don't think it's breaking my oath. If Antar wants to come and get me, he is free to do so," Leon shrugged, and waved back at the towers of the Ditch gate. "No man has seized this fortress before."

"You are overconfident," Kastner growled.

"And so are you. And you seem to have an ambition to become king. Am I correct?"

"Your mouth flows over, Lord Walker. Best hope you know your place," Kastner snarled.

"What ultimatum do you give me, then?"

"Three days, we will be on generous terms. After the third day, I will treat you and your army as a hostile force. Is that clear?" Kastner asked.

"Of course, _my lord_."

"This meeting is over. I look forward to our next conference, Lord Walker," Kastner smiled suspiciously.

"Ah, yes, of course," Leon smiled again, already leading his horse away. The two parties departed, their banners fluttering in the cool spring breeze that was picking up.

"What do you plan to do, my lord?" Darius asked, slightly hesitant.

"I do not know yet. Give me a night to think about it."

"Of course..."

"We'll convene the council in the morning. Be prepared to muster your troops if necessary, Captain Loyhrs. Be ready for war."

VVVVV

The business district of the Swedish capital was his destination; it was easy to find, the street signs providing every direction that he required. Before long, he had walked all the way to the business district and eventually found himself standing across the street from the building that would be his destination for today.

_Mojang headquarters. Exactly where he wanted to be._

Confidently, he strolled across the street, following the designated walkway like everyone else. There was nobody at the door to Mojang; the front doors were unlocked, unguarded, allowing entrance to anyone. Surely the receptionist would accost anybody who walked in and ask them for an employee card or a guest pass.

_That really won't stop me_, he thought as he forced the glass doors open and took a deep breath of the warm, fresh air of the building.

_Relaxing. Such a relaxing atmosphere_, he thought as he drew the 9mm handgun out. Today would be a good day.

He shot the receptionist, he shot the assistant to her. A visitor came round the corner, and before the man could react he was shot too.

The gunshots echoed loudly off of the walls as he walked past the bodies of the dead and dying, shooting anyone that he saw. Guests, employees, techs, anybody who stood in front of him-this was his job, this was his assignment.

There were shouts; an alarm went off, sirens could be heard in the distance.

_It does not matter. I have almost found my objective_.

The hub was so small, for something so large; Minecraftia was a massive land, but the main hub, the machine that regulated all of it, was about the size of a refrigerator, if not a bit bigger. One man stood in front of it, holding his arms out as if he were blocking it from the attacker.

_A last ditch defense_, the shooter thought, smiling, as he pulled the trigger and the man's body jerked before falling firmly against the simulator. _Almost touching_.

He ripped open the control panel, throwing the dead tech's body aside as he did so. The thousands of wires in there kept the simulator running; he only needed to cut one.

He identified the set of dark blue wires that he needed to slice; he had no wire cutters, only a thick Bowie knife.

_It will do the job_.

One slice of that knife, and the wires were severed; the job for his master was complete.

_Nobody's leaving Minecraftia now. Temporary, permanent...nobody will leave._

The server was isolated now. Everyone was stuck inside...and everyone was now mortal.

The sirens wailed as the shooter brought the gun to his temple and, almost ecstatic, slowly squeezed the trigger; his job was done.

It was time for the War to begin.


	18. Upon the Crumbling Precipice

**My apologies for no review answers this time around. I needed to get this up onto the story.**

**So, long story short, got four chapters back (explanation is long-winded). Two chapters lost, but hell, that can be replaced. No big loss. We're good.**

**Enjoy! A little shorter than usual, sorry!**

**VVVVV**

Matt awoke to the strangest tingling sensation coursing through his veins, like tiny lances of painless electricity. It disappeared the moment he rose, that feeling, but he still felt a bit numb afterwards, as if someone had shocked him during his sleep.

Other than the massive, and possibly hostile, host of soldiers camping outside of the Ditch, the day dawned as normally as any other. Most of the guards were wary of the 70,000 visitors outside, but they seemed quite relaxed. They chatted and joked as they cleaned and geared themselves up, and a few of them even talked to Matt, asking him how big the camp was and what he thought about Kastner. For once, Matt felt almost optimistic about the day as he strapped his armor on and went out to the training field.

That optimism was sapped the moment he saw Darius preparing his escort, barking orders angrily. He knew what this meant; they had been summoned by Lord Walker. Leon always had Darius around him when he went outside of the city proper; it could have been a journey to one of the far-flung towns of the Ditch, that was entirely possible. Matt decided it would be best to ask, and made his way to the captain.

"We've been requested to escort Lord Walker again," Darius spoke offhandedly as his squire approached. "He's going out to see Kastner again."

"Oh...er, okay," Matt said, somewhat disappointed to be going back out there. The high lord had not been friendly yesterday; Matt had a gut feeling that his icy demeanor would not change in the course of twenty-four hours. He could only hope that Elias Kastner was more amicable today.

"We'd best be off, captain," one of the guards said. "Are we ready?"

"Yeah, alright. Let's go."

Once again, surrounded by his bodyguard in their chiming chainmail armor, Darius led the way back up to the top level of the city. Their horses were, once again, prepared by stable boys; this time, Matt actually had a horse, and he found himself utterly perplexed while attempting to get up onto it.

"Feet in the stirrups, grab onto the reins and hold them tight," one stablehand advised. "He's gentle, but you want to retain control. You feelin' alright?"

"It's just a bit awkward, is all," Matt said.

"You'll get used to it, hopefully. He's an easy rider, don't you worry."

Now mounted, Matt followed one of Darius' retainers and once more left the safety of the city, exiting through the massive wrought iron gates. Spring was definitely in the air, a warm breeze that rippled through Matt's armor and whistled through the tiny cracks in his helm. The assembly of riders that followed Leon were waiting; their banners fluttered in the breeze, and Lord Walker himself was sitting atop his destrier, the animal pawing at the hard earth nervously.

"Better timing today, captain," Leon smiled.

"What's all the rush?" Darius inquired.

"Nobody told me. I just received a very urgent and angry letter from our good kingly friend. Best not to keep him waiting, eh?"

"He didn't even tell you why he summoned you?" Darius asked curiously.

"Not a word. But I'm not one to deny a summons when I receive it, so we're going into his camp today. That's what I was told, anyway," Leon shrugged. Darius shrugged too; Matt had nothing to say on the matter. He gave his horse an awkward spurring, and the animal began to walk forward, heeding his commands. It was weird, the feeling of the pommel and saddle and reins, but at least he had control over his mount.

Matt noticed Rykar sitting amongst his Lord's escort, and attempted to signal him, but the castellan either ignored the greeting or did not notice it. Either way, Leon began to lead the way down to the camp, his bannermen trotting along right beside him. They followed the stone road that led east, down the grassy hillock, past fields of aggressively crimson roses and brightly colored daisies, past clumps of tall sharpgrass and dry deadbush.

The camp stank; even before they reached the sentries standing at the barricades on the road, Matt could smell the stench of feces and stale sweat. The guards moved the wooden barricades aside, opening up the makeshift gate to allow Leon's party to move on in.

As soon as he entered, Matt noticed something amiss. Riding past tents and makeshift stables, past piles of hay and crates full of supplies, he saw fear and distrust in the eyes of the common men, the archers and spearmen and halberdiers who were encamped along the side of the road. Not only fear of the brilliantly armored bodyguard who rode close to Leon, but fear of something else; Matt could see it, could sense it, but he could put his finger upon what they possibly could have been afraid of.

About five minutes into their ride, they were accosted by a heavyset black man on a horse and several mounted guards bearing the colors and insignia of Lord James Kleiner, who was Kastner's right hand man.

"Lord Walker?" the accoster inquired.

"Yes, that is me-"

"Lord Kastner is waiting for you. This way, if you will please." Without another word, the Kleiner footman turned his mount and began to trot off. Leon reluctantly followed, digging his spurs into his own mount and leading his party onward. Matt kept a steady pace, trying to ignore the eyes watching from either side of him.

Lord Kastner's command tent was a massive black canvas building spread out on top of a flat hilltop. It was surrounded by armored guards and lit torches, and several watchdogs were chained to a thick tree anchored into the ground, one of the few oaks that stood upon these grassy plains. The black captain led them up to the tent, before dismounting and handing his horse off to a small stablehand.

"He's waiting in there. Are you going in alone?"

"Darius, bring your squire with you. Faulkner, bring Rykar. I'm taking my most trusted men inside," Leon answered after turning away from his own men and back to the captain.

"As my lord pleases."

The flaps of the tent parted, revealing three lords standing at the back of the large command tent. They were surrounded by couriers and retainers, and a few generals bearing the colors of the different lords: Kastner, Kleiner, Rolf, and the insignia of the city of Crestan.

"Lord Walker, glad to see you made it," Kastner frowned as soon as the flaps parted. "We have an issue."

"There seems to be a multitude of those these days. Tell me, what is this issue you speak of?"

"Take this seriously," Kastner warned. "There's an epidemic of scarlet run spreading through my troops. That's only half of the problem."

"I'd say the bloody run is bad enough. What else could be wrong?" Leon shrugged.

"The temps are dying, Walker. And they're not coming back."

"I...I'm sorry? The temporaries?"

"Yes, the temporary soldiers in my army," Kastner growled. "They're dying of the run, but they're not coming back. And they've set their respawn points to here."

"Are you sure those points are set?" Leon asked, now thoroughly worried. Matt was half inside of the tent and half outside; behind him, he could hear the nervous whinnying of horses and the fluttering of cloth in the light breeze.

"Yes, I made dead sure they were set to here," Kastner said. "But they aren't coming back! I've already lost a hundred!"

Matt wondered how a hundred soldiers made any difference, but then he realized: one hundred temporaries.

_Temps always come back...they can respawn, they have that power. _

"It's been two days since the first died, and he hasn't returned. That's the first time it's happened in living memory, possibly in centuries," Kastner groaned, falling down onto his wicker throne.

"I cannot comprehend it," Leon abdicated. "They're temps...how can they..."

"Die? They have, and they continue to. The plague is wreaking its havoc, damn it..."

"Antar marches closer, my lord. You cannot let this hold you back from meeting him," Leon stated.

"Yes, I know," Kastner conceded, actually agreeing with his subordinate. "Plague or no, I will meet him on the field of battle. Have any more scouts reported back?" he asked the nearby James Kleiner, who held up two fingers.

"What are the reports?"

"He's about six days away, by their estimate. And he's marching straight for the Ditch-about six thousand troops took Dunnefold, only because Lady Ciana opened the gates, thinking Antar's men would be merciful," Kleiner sneered.

"They took the city rather bloodlessly, but it's still in their hands," Kastner muttered.

"It's not of our concern. Dunnefold had no strategic value, it's the Ditch he wants," Leon interrupted.

"We all know that. But still, the problem with the temps plagues me..."

"I understand, Lord Kastner-"

"We're all mortal now, Walker," he cautioned grimly. "I'm just as mortal as you. We've all got one life now, and it's time to decide whether we live or die."

VVVVV

Matt tossed and turned in his sleep once more. What bothered him most now was the approaching army, the 200,000 trained killers marching in orderly ranks towards the Ditch, with the intention of slaying every armed male and taking the fortress for themselves. He had no intention of dying in the upcoming battle; the shroud of death hung over him the entire night, gnawed at him.

However, down in the barracks, there was no such thing as getting up in the middle of night and going out for a walk to think over your problems. When he could not sleep, Matt was forced to lay there and let his thoughts wander; however, Antar's army was on his mind. He was nervous, worried, fretful about the battle; as Darius' squire, he knew that he would have some part in the furious fighting that would occur.

Come morning, he felt haggard and worn; Darius noticed, but did not say anything. Rumors of the temps' death had spread through the entire barracks during the previous evening, and most of the tables in the mess hall were hosts to whispered conversations, hushed murmurs and rapidly spreading rumors.

"Matt, you were there, weren't you?" Kellan asked as soon as he sat down with several of the guardsmen around his age. He knew exactly what they were inquiring about, and reluctantly decided to answer.

"Yeah...everything you've heard is true. Or, well, at least, ya know, the whole thing about the temporaries-"

"How many have died, huh?" another boy, a freckled and baby-faced youth, asked.

"He said a hundred or so-"

"Are the temps leaving?"

"I don't know," Matt said firmly. "I don't know anymore than that, don't ask about anything else..."

Although they were taken aback, they stopped asking questions about it, and they ate mostly in silence. Kellan was still up for talking about other things; if Matt had found one close friend in the Ditch, it was him.

"Have you and Darius gotten along well?" Kellan asked, refilling his canteen at the water cistern later.

"He says I've been doing my job well. I guess so, then."

"Do you miss the other guys, the miners?"

"Yeah, they were pretty cool," Matt said offhandedly, holding his leather canteen beneath the spigot and letting cool water, fresh from a spring buried deep beneath the rock, flow into it and fill the interior.

"And what about Aleesha?"

"Well...what about her?" Matt replied.

"I dunno if you ever changed your mind about her. I was just asking, don't get defensive," Kellan retracted as they left the cistern.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to..."

Truth be told, Matt's teenage mind was still torn between Sora and Aleesha, the two women that he felt for. He wished that it wasn't so complicated, that he could make up his mind and stick to that choice. But he was torn between two opposing forces, as if he were being pulled apart by a hypothetical magnet. His attraction towards Sora was more of a romantic affair, whilst his attraction towards Aleesha was nothing but pure lust; both were gnawing at him.

"It's...I don't know, it's complicated..."

"I feel that pain, man. Are you still...you know...feeling for that other-"

"Yeah, yeah, her too," Matt sighed, feeling some sort of complex conglomerate of emotional pain welling up in his chest.

_This is not the time for hormones...you're going to be fighting a war in a few days. Snap the hell out of it._

"Just don't let it overcome you. Maybe don't think about it for a few days? Perhaps that'll help clear your mind," Kellan suggested.

"It really doesn't help that we'll be coming to grips with Antar's forces by the week's end," Matt grumbled gloomily.

"Well, no...I'm not really thrilled about that either..."

"Do you think he'll actually attack us?" Matt asked.

"How should I know?"

"I'm only asking your opinion..."

"Stanislaus Antar is a bold man, but disillusioned," Kellan sighed. "He wants a unified Minecraftia, and lord knows what else. I'll bet he attacks everything he can, he already seized Dunnefold."

"I'm nervous about it," Matt replied, topping off his canteen.

"Everyone is. You can see it," Kellan pointed out as they left the cistern together.

"You're not the first guy to fall for Aleesha, you know that?" Kellan brought the subject back to life as they walked back to the training grounds.

"Did you have to bring her up again?"

"Well, I'm just trying to make a point..."

"What point do you have to make?" Matt asked, exasperated.

"Look, every miner down there wants to bone her, but they're all terrified that she'll flip her shit on them or something. She's scary, there's no denying that," Kellan said.

"Your point?"

"You're not the first to suffer through this, Matt. If anything, ask another one of the guys from Test, they like you enough to talk to you. Hell, maybe they'll even salute you for returning, eh?"

Kellan chuckled at his own jest, but Matt did not find it the least bit funny. They left the cistern area in silence.

Another two rough, trying days of training and worry passed before news came of Antar's impending arrival. His massive army of 200,000 had somehow picked up their pace and were a day's march from the encampment of Kastner. The announcement was greeted with an apprehensive silence, after which Darius filled the guardsmen in on their duty.

"The main army of our city will be seeing the fighting, most likely, but the guardsmen will be deployed up at the gate and inside the city proper as a precaution," he told them, standing in front of the assembly on the training grounds.

"Do you expect us to meet the enemy?" one of the guards asked.

"I cannot say. Antar means to take the Ditch for himself, but our Lord Kastner stands in his way. The fighting will occur outside of the gate, most like."

This was met with little emotion or response; everyone was as silent as death, disquieted, afraid. Both temporaries and permanents watched Darius with fearful eyes, twiddling their fingers or drumming on their arms anxiously, tapping their feet or smacking their lips nervously, waiting for the crimson tomorrow. Darius, knowing that no more could be said, dismissed them.

"There will be no training today. Lights out at nine, we rise at four tomorrow, full armor, everyone to assigned posts. Good luck, gentlemen."

VVVVV

Dom rose from a restless slumber, awoken by the dim light from outside. Judging by the smell and the sound of the air around him, he could tell rain was on the way.

Rising from his tent, he looked west and saw massive thunderheads, purple and ugly, looming on the horizon, flashing every few seconds and growing nearer.

_Storms today. That's a bad omen for the tribes_, Dom thought as he glanced at the tribesmen around him. Despite the threat of thunder, they seemed content and ready for war, sharpening their spears and axes and putting the finishing touches on strong yew bows, pliant and ready for battle.

"My warriors are ready for your command," Eldremen startled Dom momentarily, appearing from out of nowhere. The stooped old tribal elder was not fit for battle, but he still carried a staff with a sharpened point, a tribal emblem. The Tribes of the Pass had once been civilized people, but years of hiding in their mountainous sanctuaries had driven them to a primeval life of hunting, gathering and primitive warmongering.

_And today they will become pawns. It's almost heartwrenching._

They had been deceived and cheated by greater men, and many of them would certainly face death today. The defenses of the fortress were strong; it was like no other that Dom had seen, almost impenetrable.

But today would be their day. As he looked down from the craggy cliff upon the great ravine below, he almost caught himself smiling triumphantly.

Today they would seize the Ditch, and in the most unexpected way.


	19. The Men Who Would Be Kings

**Hello, internet!  
There is little time for any sort of author's note, for I will be leaving for a week to go...do things and stuff! There's more to it than that, but it's a bit of a long explanation, so I'll just say I'm going to visit colleges. The time will soon come to choose!**

**And now, without further ado (no time for review answers, sorry), I present to you the chapter I am most proud of so far. Please enjoy, and I welcome your comments and concerns!**

**VVVVV**

Dom rose ready for battle, a bloodlust rising in him.

He was the only man in his 40,000-strong barbarian army carrying a firearm. The automatic assault rifle would work wonders against the armored defenders of the Ditch.

He sought out Eldremen, working his way through the core of the massive camp hidden within the foothills close to the Ditch. They were just a small collection of miniature mountains, but they were large enough to conceal the army until it was ready to be deployed.

Not that anyone was paying attention to the tiny collection of earthen bumps northwest of the Ditch; all of the attention was fixated on the two massive camps drawn out in front of the ravine, both visible from miles away. The smoke from Antar's camp rose in a huge, festering black cloud, the smoke of a hundred thousand campfires burning long into the night. The sun had hardly risen over the western horizon, a rose red ball of fire obscured partially by wispy pinkish clouds.

He found Eldremen assembling his noble guard around one of the larger campfires, speaking to them in a strange native tongue. When the elder saw Dom approaching, he turned away from his own men and smiled grimly.

"They are ready to bathe in their enemy's blood, and their own," he chortled. "I am proud of them."

"Are the grappling hooks ready?" Dom asked, uninterested in the berserkers and their brutish customs.

"Er...yes, sir, they are," Eldremen answered, stuttering. "You...don't intend to use all of them, do you?"

"How else are we going to get down in that damned ravine?" Dom inquired angrily, snatching a cigarette from his pocket.

"My warriors are brave, they can take the gate and walls..."

"A folly. We'll rappel down, that was the original plan. Your warriors will have plenty of time to prove themselves once we get down into the actual city," Dom promised.

_Much smarter than trying to assail that gate...nobody can break that down, if Lord Thompson is to be believed._

Thompson had told him stories about the strength of the massive gateway, the only viable way to enter the Ditch. The rappelling plan was dangerous, but if it could be pulled off the city would fall...

"This...plan...it is unnatural, my tribesmen are not used to such..._sneak _attacks," Eldremen complained, placing scathing emphasis on the very idea of sneaking in. "We fight our enemy face to face."

"Your pride will be your death," Dom cautioned. "Lord Thompson has spoken to me about the gate, there is no way we can penetrate it-"

"And my gods have spoken to me as well," Eldremen claimed. "And they told me that victory would only come through the spillage of blood. We must face them head-on."

"Such hubris will get you killed. We sneak into the city over the side, that is final."

Eldremen's withered face soured, but he ceased his arguing and allowed Dom to take over.

"Grab the grappling hooks, then. Get your men ready, we'll be at the city by dawn."

VVVV

Matt rose with a feeling of dread burning in the pit of his stomach.

Dawn had broken; the bells rang, the barracks stirred with sleep morning activity. He felt nauseous, sick, apprehensive, and he could tell that his feelings were shared amongst the camp. Every half-dressed, sleepy guardsman who filed out of the barracks along with him looked afraid, haggard, a few of them ill. Many of them had gotten very little sleep, and it showed in their bloodshot eyes.

There would be no training today, no morning sparring matches or dawn runs. Already, weapons were being dispensed to each unit, every man armored himself for the possibility of the coming battle. The gear, though not exactly new, was refined and in good condition, and most of the pieces had only a little more than a hint of rust on them.

Matt had his own special set of armor, a dedicated set of squiring mail and half-plate that came with no helm. He had some difficulty fitting some of it on, but after about fifteen minutes he was well suited and, as soon as he retrieved his shield and blade, he sought out Darius, who would be waiting for his squire.

The captain, as it turned out, had already thrown on his gauntlets and greaves before Matt arrived, slightly late. Despite his tardiness, he was greeted quite amicably by Darius, who stood still while Matt affixed the rest of the armor, including the heavy iron cuirass, and handed Darius his helm, as well as his captain's badge.

"Are you ready, Matt?"

"I...guess I am..."

"Remember everything you've learned, and stay with me. You'll be fine," Darius patted him gently on the back. "We'll be stationed on the Third Level, close to Lord Walker's hall."

Men flowed out of the barracks like water, cohorts of sweaty, armored warriors jostling one another as they exited the safe haven of the underground encampment. Per his designation as Darius' man at arms, Matt stayed close to the captain as he led a troop of professional guardsmen up and out. The going was slow-the elevators could only hold a maximum number of armored men-and it had been nearly an hour of waiting before Matt was finally able to ascend to the Fourth Level, where the staircases were wider and space was readily available.

The city was crawling with guardsmen, stationed at every corner and every plaza, in squads or in small groups of two and three, idly tapping the butts of spears against the ground or leaning against hewn stone walls.

"Why aren't we out fighting?" Matt asked curiously, following Darius as they made their way up to the Third Level.

"Out fighting?"

"Like...isn't the battle going to be outside of the city?"

"It's not our battle," Darius reprimanded him. "What made you think that?"

"I...just assumed we were going to be in combat," Matt replied, taken aback.

"Not unless we can't avoid it. Le-Lord Walker wishes to avoid any fighting, it's not his war," Darius said, in a more genial tone.

Matt was somewhat relieved that he wouldn't be fighting out on the front lines at all-he assumed that Leon would be leading soldiers out when Antar's troops arrived. All he would have to do was wait, cloistered within the safe confines of the Ditch while Kastner and Antar battled outside of the gate.

The Main Hall was swarming with Leon's personal guard, heavily-armored knights wielding massive iron broadswords or heavy steel maces. They were a fearsome group, looking more like machines than men in plate armor and closed helms. They paid little attention to the troop of bodyguards soldiering into the hall, led by Darius.

"Your punctuality is much appreciated today, captain," Lord Walker greeted them. He was bedecked in full combat armor, heavy iron plate with the same type of gear his bodyguard wore. His helmet was plumed with brilliant yellow feathers, and he wore a bright crimson sash across his chest.

"What do you expect to happen today?"  
"Expect nothing and expect everything, at the same time," Leon smiled. "This is not our war to fight, we're just here to protect our own."

"Aye, sir. You seem to be prepared," Darius motioned to the bodyguard assembled around him.

"It never hurts. Take your positions, have your men ready, and wait. We'll see what happens," Leon ordered, tightening one of his gauntlets.

Darius shouted orders at each of his bodyguards, who proceeded to take up some defensive position inside the Main Hall. Matt, expecting to receive an order himself, was surprised when Darius told him to follow and left the Hall, heading back into the area where Matt's old quarters used to be. They followed Leon into the main conference room, where most of the noblemen and garrison commanders had gathered around a map.

"We're bringing everyone to the main city, that includes civilians and militiamen. Every person who lives in the ravine is being cloistered down in the lower levels for their own safety," Leon announced as he entered. Matt sheepishly followed Darius into the main room, and stood closely by his side, awkwardly wringing his hands as he attracted suspicious glances from several of the elegant noblemen.

"Do you plan to just wait the battle out in here, then?" a familiar voice inquired, and Matt saw Rykar on the far side of the table, decked out in his own castellan's ringmail and half-helm.

"I do. We stand to gain nothing by going out there," Leon pointed out.

"Aye, I'm with him," another nobleman spoke.

"What will Kastner have to say about it?" another inquired.

"I think Lord Kastner has more pressing issues on hand," Leon smirked. "He's...got his war. If one of the hosts comes to our gate, we'll give them a warm welcome."

Only an idiot would be unable to see the inherent sarcasm in that declaration; Matt knew that the Ditch was locked down now, and nobody was coming into the fortress unless they completely razed it.

"And what about after the battle? What will you do about the victor?" Darius asked, breaking the brief silence.

"Parlay with them, perhaps. I do not intend to give up the Ditch, yet if the fight appears to be futile, we will have no choice but to surrender," Leon shrugged.

"So you just intend to give up, then?"

"That is only in the worst possible case. I will not give the Ditch to anybody unless I have no other choice," Leon said more firmly.

"Push might come to shove, you do realize that?" Darius pointed out.

"I am aware that we're stuck between a rock and a hard place. What else would you have me do?"

"Try to parlay with Kastner, even at this late hour. At least tell him you stand by-"

Darius was cut off suddenly by a distant scream, followed by another, and then another, and then a growing chorus of clashing metal from somewhere outside. The din grew as each second passed, steel ringing against steel not far from the conference room.

"There's...fighting already?" one of the noblemen asked to nobody in particular, quite confused.

"That's from inside the city..."

As if to punctuate the fact, a foreign, shrill warhorn sounded not far above them, a cry that Matt had never heard before. Judging by the looks on the other mens' faces, none of them were familiar with it.

"That's no Reinhardt war trumpet," Rykar pointed out.

"Well, it looks like we have another player in this game," Leon grimaced, drawing his golden sword from its scabbard. "Darius? Get all of your men ready. Anyone foreign enters this city, kill them. Spare nobody."

VVVVV

James Kleiner's horse pranced nervously in front of the wall of spearmen; it had caught the scent, just a whiff, and was not at all thrilled to smell it.

On the other side of the open field, the boars were all lined up, massive brown, tusked animals who had once been simple pigs. Over the years, through careful breeding and control, the once passive pigs had been grown into shaggy, wild beasts who were normally peaceful and quiet-but when provoked, turned into killing machines. They were still herbivorous animals, and thus could not be provoked into a bloodlust. Carrots were the bait used to incite them; hold a carrot out in front of the beast, attached to a rod, and the creature would go berserk, charging after the unattainable prize. At that point, it became a weapon of tusked destruction, charging forward with an insane vigor until it was either dead or had taken its prize.

There were dozens of them on the horizon, an entire line of boars pawing anxiously at the ground, either that or chewing on tufts of grass idly. Until presented with a carrot, they would remain idle and waiting.

Kleiner's troops were shifting nervously. He tried to avoid looking back at them; he needed to confront his enemy, to take measure of Antar's strength and formation. In just a few minutes, Lord Kastner would be riding out to a halfway point, a collection of brush in the middle of the two armies, to parlay with Antar before the battle. The two men were civilized enough to hold a decent conference; the men who would be kings would speak before the battle, and hopefully some resolution could be reached. Kleiner had his doubts.

The armored wall parted, and several riders stepped out of the midst, mounted on finely dressed horses and armored like noblemen. The banners of House Kastner rose above the small escort, and Kleiner realized that this was the parlay group. He rode up to them, spurring his horse into action.

"Are you ready to accompany us, Lord Kleiner?" Kastner asked, his horse kicking the soft earth impatiently.

"Yes...how many are we bringing?" he asked.

"All of the lords and captains, including my bodyguard and Lord Rolf's...er...escort."

Only then did Kleiner notice the dozen or so cloaked and hooded figures, unmounted, seemingly without weapons. Their robes were gray, their hoods were gray and drawn down to the bridge of their nose, giving them a mysterious air that reminded Kleiner of Lord Tanner's mysterious advisor. His spy had been murdered days ago; no more news had come from Brennan's camp in the city.

"Are you bringing anyone with you?" Kastner asked.

"Er...no, my lord, I am not..."

"Alright then, let's move," Kastner declared, without another word.

The party started off at a slow pace, following behind Kastner and his bannerman. Rolf's shadowy bodyguard lagged behind a bit, but they were surprisingly fleet of foot, and they almost managed to keep up with the horses. Kleiner, as he rode, could see a small column of mounts on the other side of the field, moving towards the tiny grove at the center. Antar's party was coming as well; at least he kept his end of the bargain.

There was a small clearing in the middle of the grove, a circlet of grass and flowers shadowed by the foliage overhead. As all of the riders dismounted and set their horses aside, Antar's party entered the clearing from the opposite end, banners bearing the colors of Reinhardt territory fluttering in a cool breeze.

Kastner and Antar stood not ten feet apart from each other. An invisible line stood between the two men as they removed their gloves, a sign of peaceful intentions. They might have been warriors, Kleiner knew, but both men had a talent for speechcraft.

His plan was all worked out; it relied on the battle, the battle had to happen for his action to succeed. If Kastner won, everything that he had worked towards would fall apart at the seams; Antar had to win for the plan to prevail.

_Just let the men talk...you've been planning this for weeks, don't let it slip through your fingers_.

"Well met, Lord Kastner," the Reinhardt nobleman began, throwing his gloves to an assistant.

"You come to speak of peace, even when you have invaded my territory. How does that work?"

"Already hostile? Do you want to fight?" Antar asked cautiously. He was not a heavyset man; young and lithe, with light brown hair, but grim faced and hardened, with a pointy chin and rough cheekbones.

"Seeing as I am outnumbered, it would be wise to avoid conflict," Kastner observed.

"My terms are clear, Elias. You step down from your role as a 'proto-monarch', and hand Connaughtshire over to me. No bloodshed, no violence, no destruction. A handoff of land, simple as that. I will accept nothing else."

"Then I'm afraid this will be an unproductive meeting for you," Kastner shook his head grimly.

"Is that final?"

"I am afraid so. I'm sorry it has to be this way."

"No...I'm sorry you're too stubborn to know what's good for you. I'm sorry for the men who die today because of your foolishness. Farewell."

Antar took his glove again and turned away briskly, mounting his horse quickly and firmly.

"I do not want you to die, Elias Kastner. Nobody's blood is worth spilling for such a cause. Surrender yourself, and your men, and that will be the end of it," Antar announced once more, relenting briefly. But Kastner stood his ground, locking eyes with the younger man, and that was the end of it. Antar turned around, reining his horse around, and left the scene, hauling his escort with him.

_So that was our parlay. Two stubborn men want to be kings, and they'll spill the blood of thousands for it. Where do I come in? _

Kleiner wondered to himself as he mounted his horse once more, satisfied that battle would be done. If his plan worked as it should, the outcome would be far less destructive than it would be if Kastner remained in charge.

_He must die, though...such a brave man, with such pride in his eye...he cannot live._

The two parties parted ways, returning to the massive hosts on either side of that green field. As Kleiner rode, he noticed smoke rising from the west, and he was obviously not the first one to see it. Lord Rolf, leading his convoy of silent phantoms, wheeled his horse around and pointed it out to Kastner, who stopped the entire group.

"Smoke rises, there is fire," Rolf said hoarsely, barely intelligible with his thick accent and muffled voice.

"From the Ditch? Have Antar's forces already attacked?" one of the other nobles wondered aloud.

"No, they've been holding their ground...we need to get higher," Kastner ordered, and they continued on up to the front line. The spearmen parted for them, allowing the mounts to move through and back to the main secondary line. The smoke was still very much visible, but nothing else could be seen. The distant sound of steel clashing on steel was audible, coming from within the ravine.

"There's fighting," Kleiner observed, quite blatantly.

"Yes...that much is obvious," Kastner wheeled his horse around, annoyed. "None of our concern. Lord Walker has already taken his own side, he can expect no help from us."

Suddenly, a chorus of brassy trumpets sounded from the other side of the field, echoing into the clear sky of the spring morning. A line of massive, hairy shapes formed up, silhouettes in the rising sun standing taller than any man. The horses whinnied nervously, their eyes suddenly wide and alert.

"Boars," Rolf spat.

"Aye. And a hell of a lot of them," a captain worried.

"Get the spears in order, all front rows armed with pikes and spears. Archers behind, make sure that tear vials are handed out," Kastner ordered calmly, as if he had been trained for this very moment.

"Tear vials, my lord?"

"Ghast tears. Even if it means emptying our stockpile, each archer gets a vial. Give your captains the orders, form up, and quickly," Kastner ordered, already riding off.

Kleiner wheeled his horse around as the captains dispersed; he could see the line of boars growing thicker, more and more being led up to the frontlines in preparation for a charge.

_So this is how the fate of a kingdom will be decided. One host of armored men smashing into another. _

_How poetic._

VVVVV

Matt sought cover, but was only met with another one of the brutish, fur-armored savages wielding crude picks, who uttered some sort of guttural curse and lunged at Matt with all of his strength.

Though powerful, the barbarian's charge was easily sidestepped, and Matt pressed himself flat against the nearest wall as the furry figure flew forward into the nearest wine cask. Presented with an opportunity to kill his opponent, Matt's strength once again faltered and he only managed to smash his shield into the small of the brute's back, only serving to further enrage his foe. Desperate to find his other guardsmen, or to reunite with Darius, Matt ducked another halfhearted blow from the pick and dashed out of the back of the tavern, into the alleyway.

The Ditch had intruders; they were neither Antar's men nor Kastner's soldiers, but foreign warriors of some forgotten race. They spoke another language, wore different clothes, wielded crude weapons, had managed to find their way into the fortress somehow.

Matt, as a dutiful squire, had followed Darius when the captain led a counterattack out into the main city, after realizing that an invasion force had entered the town; by the time they had arrived, the guard force on the Second Level was already in pitched battle with the invaders, and more were streaming down into the Third Level. A large number of them had attacked Darius' small escort, and Matt had been separated from his liege during the ambush. Having attempted to hide inside a nearby tavern, he was now running for his life from at least two of the tribesmen; a third had fallen from a walkway and broken his leg, now unable to give pursuit.

Matt heard the sounds of battle around him, saw bodies lying out in the alleyway, in pools of blood; some of them bore the colors of the Ditch guard, others had no colors on them, just brown and gray furs and studded leather armor over thick jerkins.

One of Matt's pursuers dashed out of the door behind him, slipping on a puddle of blood, and he took that as a cue to leave the scene, dancing over torn and mangled corpses as he ran. He was no more agile than they were, all weighed down in armor and gear, but his smaller and thinner form gave him some advantage over the lumbering berserkers behind him, and he was able to escape into one of the nearby plazas without issue.

There were bodies, but no signs of civilians or soldiers; one of the stone houses had caught ablaze, its contents and furniture erupting into flame. Smoke, unable to rise any higher than the low-cut ceiling of the civilian sector, began to spread throughout the neighborhood, forming massive veils of black smoke that obscured vision and made Matt's eyes water. The smokescreen allowed him to escape his pursuers, but he only felt more and more lost as he ran.

Without warning, the edge of the Ditch was presented to him. Matt dashed out of the clogging cloud of smoke just in time to see the sharp drop-off not ten feet in front of him; he skidded to a halt, kicking up gravel and dirt as he stopped just short of the seemingly infinite fall. He ended up falling to the ground, brought to the hard stone by the weight of his armor, coughing from the smoke and dust.

"Oi, kid! Weapon down, you got colors?" a harsh voice inquired from Matt's left. Looking over in that direction, he saw a single arm, a brief flash of movement, from the window of an apartment chiseled out of the stone, overlooking the ravine's drop off. He raised his arms to show the insignia of House Walker and the city guard engraved into a small patch on his breastplate, and immediately a face showed itself at the window. It was not anyone familiar, just some city guardsman with a crossbow.

"Alright, you're clear. Get yourself in this house, you got tribals after ya?" he asked.

"Er...two or three guys-"

"Then get in! And shut the hell up!"

A door opened, and another arm beckoned him inside. Leaving his shield on the ground where it lay, Matt hurried inside, trying not to make any noise despite his clanking and clattering armor. Once inside, the door was shut behind him, and rough hands grabbed his arms.

"Does he check out, Orville?" a gruff voice asked.

"Yeah, he's got the motif...he's one of Loyhrs' men," someone said, and Matt was unhandled.

"How many you got on your tail, kid?"

"I said two or three-"

"Hush down, we'll take care of them. Get up to the second floor," the gruff man ordered.

In almost complete darkness, Matt stumbled up a set of creaky wooden stairs and to the second floor, where the only light was provided by a window overlooking the drop-off. Hazy smoke roiled up out of the street, the product of multiple fires, and Matt came to the window just in time to see two figures, armored and bearing crude picks, stumble out of the cloud of smoke. They found Matt's shield on the ground, but they seemed confused as they glanced around for any sign of him.

"Take your shots," someone whispered, and Matt noticed the other two windows of the floor were occupied by two crossbowmen. There were two twangs, two cracks, two whooshes, and two plunks as the bolts were released and found their targets in a matter of a single second. The intruders fell over onto the street, spasming briefly before falling still, dropping their weapons.

"You were a little low!" someone taunted.

"A little low, a little high, he's still dead," the response came, and the taunter laughed.

Rough hands shook Matt's shoulder, and as he turned around a torch erupted into life, illuminating the bare interior of the apartment. There were a couple of furnishings, chairs and a table and a rough-looking bed. He was staring into the face of a guardsman, a hewn and worn elderly man with a scar cutting above his eye, holding the torch out to get a good look at Matt.

"You said you serve Captain Loyhrs, eh?"

"I never said...my...er...insignia," Matt stuttered

"Ah, your colors match. Are you his squire?" the guardsman asked, tapping the emblem on Matt's chestplate.

"Er...yeah..."

"Well, he ain't lying," a younger guard chimed in, one of the crossbowmen. "That emblem's proof if I ever saw any."

"Is he dead?" another asked, clutching an ash spear.

"I...I don't know. We were ambushed, and split up...and I ran off-"

"Then he's probably heading down to the Vault," the scarred guardsman assumed.

"Are you sure he knows about that?"

"Well, we know about it. I'm pretty sure the news has spread to almost every unit in the city," the torch-bearer argued, holding his light aloft.

"What news?" Matt asked, coughing as torch smoke wafted into his nose and made his eyes water fiercely.

"The Vault's armament is open, that's our rallying point. Civilians are being evacuated down to the lower levels, and all guardsmen are supposed to coalesce down there."

"Armament?" Matt wondered.

"Guns. Bullets. Explosives. _Illegal _shit," the young crossbowman laughed. "We aren't supposed to have that kind of stuff."

"Not unless it's an emergency. And this is one _hell _of an emergency," the spearman chimed in.

"We're all supposed to head down to the Vault and rally there. The Main Hall is sealed off, so Lord Walker will be safe, but the rest of the city is any dog's game," the torchbearer spoke.

"I need to find D-I mean, Captain Loyhrs-"

"We need to find a lot of people, kid," another grumbled. "This is a quarter of our brigade. Who knows where they are."

"And that's why we're heading down," the torchbearer said determinately. "Get to the Vault, get our hands on some nice boomsticks, and kick these fuckers out of the Ditch."

"Maybe even find out where they came from, eh?" the crossbowman laughed.

"Kill first. Ask questions later. Time's wasting, let's move."

VVVVV

One man to a boar. One insane, suicidal, maniacal man to a single boar.

The creatures were almost pleasant at this point, idly snorting or munching on grass or sniffing their surroundings. Horses and dogs were terrified of them; the scent of the porcine monster drove them mad, and it became worse the closer they got. The actual cavalry, the mounted horsemen, were back in the reserves, waiting to play their part. It was time for the pawns to move onto the field.

One captain led them; he was identifiable only by a crimson banner attached to his back, fluttering in the breeze. Retainers and hands helped him mount the shaggy beast, and handed him the fishing rod that he was to use.

_It's incredible, how such a docile creature can be driven to such fury...by a single item..._

The beasts did not resist when they were hooded and their nostrils were closed; they pawed the ground a bit, perhaps reared their heads, but not one of them became angry or enraged. That time would come soon.

Sixty of them, a line of machines with the potential to kill or maim thousands of men. All waiting for a vegetable.

The retainers brought forth the carrots, golden yellow and in their prime. They had been coated in pig pheromones before the battle, as a way of driving the boars berserk; not only would they be teased with a carrot, but it was one that would drive their sensory organs into overload, send them into a wild pursuit of the vegetable. Ages ago, native Minecrafters used to ride more docile pigs this way, tantalizing them with a carrot and riding them as they pursued the unreachable treasure. Those same pigs had been bred to be massive, beastly monsters over hundreds of years, herbivores with the capability to become engines of destruction. It was time for that raw power to be unveiled.

The captain took his carrot, oily with slick liquid pheromones, and gently attached it to the string on the rod. He extended it a good twenty feet ahead of him, and attached the rod to the saddle, ensuring that it was tightly bound to the leather straps.

The signal would be given in only a few moments; one blast of a clarion trumpet, the blindfolds and nostril covers would be removed, and the charge would begin.

The wait was almost agonizing. He could feel the beast breathing beneath him, its diaphragm rising and falling, its heart beating slowly. A cool wind whipped through his helm as a single trumpet cried out into the spring morning, a high note that echoed across the open field. Somewhere in the distance, the sound of battle could be heard, low but audible.

And then the blindfolds and covers came off, and the yellow treat was there. As if in unison, sixty roars rang out, sixty masses sprinted out of the starting gate and flew across the battlefield, as fast as any charging horse.

The captain, even though he was tied to the creature, found that it was difficult to stay on as the boar pursued the carrot with a hellish fury, grunting and roaring as it charged. On the other side of the field from them, a solid wall of spears and shields, men waiting to take the first blow. Behind them, an army waiting for the moment of impact before charging, taking advantage of their opponents' disarray.

This was it. Arrows flew into the air, a thick cloud of them, too late to do anything...this was the moment of impact, the first sacrifice.

_I live for him, I die for him. The man who would be king._

The fourteen-foot tall beast crashed into the armored wall like a battering ram. All sixty of them hit the line, surging forward in pursuit of a carrot. It was almost laughable, how much death they caused just for a morning snack.

Blood flew into the air like rain, limbs and weapons tossed up almost lazily, bodies busted and destroyed and lacerated and smashed. The pikes and spears did no good; the boars were in their berserk mode, they felt no pain. The captain felt spears pierce him, felt cold steel rip into his skin, but he was in his own state of ecstasy, feeling warm blood splatter his face and sting his eyes, watching dozens of men thrown up into the air and torn apart by vicious tusks, trampled by massive feet and crushed by the weight of a mighty beast.

His death would not matter. This was only the beginning, and the pawns had played their part.

VVVVV

From the hillock above, James Kleiner watched as the shaggy masses tore through the front line of spearmen, carving gigantic gaps in the formation and spreading death and destruction wherever they rampaged.

The tusks tore through anything as if it were butter, sharp keratin ripping through armor like paper and shredding bodies, tossing them up into the air like ragdolls and separating limb from body, filling the air with a putrefactive rain of blood, skin and gore. It was difficult to watch from atop the horse, seeing the slaughter below, but already some of the boars were falling to spear wounds, and the line would be reinforced with fresh troops.

_Send in more pawns. That's what they're made for_.

Unfortunately, Antar had nearly three times the number of "pawns", a huge pool of fresh men to call onto the killing floor. Kleiner had only about thirty thousand men to his name, but that was nearly a third of the entire host, and the fate of the battle might very well hang on his actions in the coming hours.

_All the better_.

Even as the last of the mighty beasts fell, pierced a hundred times over by sharp steel, Kleiner could see waves of infantry coming down the opposite side of the hill, the first assault. The shock and awe had done its work magnificently; much of the entire front line had been shattered by the initial charge. The screams and desperate pleas of the dying and injured could be heard over everything else; from his vantage point, Kleiner could see every little shape at the frontline. Where once proud spearmen had stood piles of broken, bloodied bodies lay haphazardly, dying men without limbs strewn throughout bloody puddles, injured soldiers attempted to drag their comrades through mud and piles of lacerated flesh. Even as the salient recovered from the shock of the initial charge, and morale broke amongst several units, fresh cohorts of spearmen and men-at-arms moved from the reserve, ready to absorb the newest assault. The sun bore down from above; Kleiner's visor was lifted, giving him some relief from its light, but he was becoming hot inside of his armor.

"Give the archers the go-ahead. One volley of tears, then return to regular fire. Get extra barrels of arrows and bolts up here," Kleiner ordered his commander, who was standing below him along with a standard-bearer and trumpeter.

Trumpet orders had been rehearsed for months; every standing soldier knew what each blast of the horn meant. The militiamen and conscripts would have no idea what the sounds translated to, but they were only there to be cannon fodder; the tactical orders were saved for actual soldiers who could change the outcome of the battle.

Every single archer knew what the blasts meant; across the line, the bowmen in reserve retrieved a single arrow from their quivers, dipped it into the tiny glass vial full of clear liquid cinched to their belts, and aimed upwards towards the clear blue sky.

At this point, the sergeants of each archery cohort took command over their own bowmen, and each group had a different rate of fire. Separate clouds of arrows flew up into the sky, six thousand distinct twangs creating an almost deafening din.

The effect the ghast tear-coated arrows had on the advancing enemy ranks was visible even from such a high vantage point. The clear, shimmery liquid acted like a nerve agent once it entered the bloodstream; within a minute, vital functions were shut down, no matter where the wound was. Entire ranks of soldiers collapsed, even if their skin had barely been pierced by the sharp bolts. The agent found its way into their nervous systems; they lost control of their bowels, lost control of their arms and legs and began to spasm and writhe uncontrollably as they fell by the dozen. Like corn before a scythe, they collapsed, creating a writhing mass that inspired disgust even from this far away. Kleiner could not imagine what it was like to be in those ranks, but he could tell that the shock effect was working as several of Antar's cohorts broke and began streaming back to his lines. Many of them, however, continued marching even under a hail of arrows. After the initial volley of tear-coated arrows, the other volleys were less successful; Kleiner saw men fall here and there, miniscule shapes left behind as the rest of their units advanced, but the arrows were no longer as effective.

_They're softened up, and their morale is dented. That's a step in the right direction_.

Then, from out of the blue, three trumpet blasts in quick succession.

_The signal to advance...who sent that order!?_

It had to be Kastner's trumpeter, who had the largest and loudest music piece on the battlefield-able to signal every single soldier. Awestruck, Kleiner watched as several of the first ranks advanced hesitantly, marching over the smashed bodies of their comrades and parting for the massive bodies of boars lodged into the bloody earth.

_What's he doing!? Charging to meet them?_

Kleiner's own soldiers were moving forward, slowly, cautiously, confused as to why they were rushing out to meet the enemy. Kastner's cohorts were moving forward at a speedy pace, and Rolf's troops were already engaging the enemy. The sounds of battle began to grow closer, louder and louder as more soldiers met.

"My lord, should we hold?" his commander asked.

"No, let them press forward for now. Come with me, and when I give the signal, sound for retreat," Kleiner ordered. He spurred his horse forward, galloping past ranks of archers as his commander and bannermen struggled to keep up.

He could now plainly see his own soldiers engaging Antar's forward units. Spearmen, in fine rank and file, charged at each other and clashed like mighty beasts, smashing into one another with shields and thrusting their lances forward in hopes of catching a chink in the row of shields and hitting flesh. It was less of a fight and more of a crush of armored men pushing against each other, seeing who would give way first. Swords were useless in the organized fray; one would have to use a thrusting weapon, and spears were put to great effect.

Kleiner rode down past the blood-soaked battleground where the boars had made their charge, passing heaps of bodies and men who were still dying, who pleaded to him for water or for a way to end their misery. Deaf to their cries, trying to ignore their pleas, he pushed on, riding past skirmishers firing shortbows into the air, past broken soldiers stumbling back towards the reserves, tears streaming down their faces, past wounded men lying in piss and blood, and past commanders shouting orders to their cohorts from safety.

More men were streaming in from the reserve, exhausting their reinforcement pool; it was as if a line had been drawn straight across the battlefield, invisible and intangible, and every man had to do everything he could to cross that line. Kleiner wanted to ride closer, to get up into combat, but it was still too dangerous. Once the combat lock broke up, and swords came into play, he would ride in and lasso his troops into an organized formation.

For all of their superior numbers, Antar's men broke first, as the first rank of spearmen collapsed. Kleiner, riding alongside a cohort of Crestan pikemen with their plumed helms, watched as Antar's ranks broke, their spearmen turned and ran, a mass rout that turned into a tidal wave of fleeing men. Kleiner's own legions, suddenly flushed with unexpected victory, began to pursue, running their hapless opponents down and driving them into the earth with long spears or beating them down with heavy shields.

And that's when Kleiner noticed the trebuchets.

He had been focused on the melee in the center of the field, and focused on Kastner's front flowing into the stand of trees, pushing their own enemies back. The one thing he had failed to notice were the war machines slowly approaching, moving on wheels and driven by teams of dozens of men.

"Sound the order to retreat to our original positions! _NOW_!" Kleiner ordered desperately, reining his horse in. The trumpet blew, the brass sounded, and all around him he saw confused men turn their attention to his party, wondering why they were retreating when the enemy was in a rout. Some of the captains saw the trebuchets, and heard the signal, and barked commands for an orderly retreat; others soldiered on, either heedless to the trumpet or too caught up in the excitement of war to listen to orders.

"Damnit, pull back!" Kleiner shouted again and again, to every captain and sergeant he passed. Arrows soared overhead, covering their retreat; he watched as the trebuchets on the far side of the field set up, aiming directly at the flowing line of his own spearmen who were just within range.

_They're too far gone...they never heard the signal, they don't realize what they've fallen into_.

Kleiner watched, frozen in place, as the trebuchets launched their deadly payloads, sacks full of burning glowstone, up into the clear air, in a parabola, only to come back down upon the soldiers who had pressed forward. The deadly payload fell on both friendly and enemy soldiers; men burned alive as they were coated in the dust, or inhaled the burning powder as it burst into the air. It was like glowing tar, hot and sludgy, with a dusty trail that became sucked into the trachea and made breathing nearly impossible.

_Monstrous...simply monstrous_, Kleiner thought over and over again as he watched hundreds of men die, their flesh burning or their lungs catching on fire as the dust clogged them. Hundreds stooped over and fell, thousands, and those who survived either collapsed of exhaustion or retreated, streaming back to their own lines in disarray.

The wretched smell of burning flesh seared his nostrils as it wafted on the air, along with the horrendous moans and gurgling of hundreds of dying, burned men. Smoke dissipated into the air, and the green field before them was coated with dead and dying, scattered shields and weapons and bodies still writing, trying to remove the tar that cloaked them like some ghastly cloth.

The trebuchets had stopped firing, and had retired; a new line, a massive host of swordsmen and men-at-arms, were marching up to their battle positions on the other side, eager to meet the enemy.

Behind Kleiner were warriors and knights equally eager to meet their foe. One of them started to bash his weapon against his shield, to imitate a drum; another followed, and then another. The rallying cry was picked up, hundreds of men-at-arms smacking steel against wood to create a hollow, furious war cry that drowned out the sounds of battle on the other areas of the field.

Kleiner drew his own sword, and brought the visor down on his helm. All it took was a spur into the ribs of his horse, and the charge began.

VVVVV

Matt had found Darius, but it seemed like more trouble had come of it.

As Darius' squire, Matt was supposed to fight for and defend his master, but he found it difficult to stand by Darius and attack his opponents. The invaders were brutal and rough, hardened men from some distant land, and they fought with a ferocity akin to wild beasts. Matt stayed close to Darius, holding his shield up, and let the other guardsmen kill the tribals, while he kept them occupied and absorbed their blows with his shield.

The guardsmen, or those who had managed to make their way down to the Vault, had their backs to the massive structure, unable to retreat any further. A line of pikes formed their defensive formation, jabbing out at any who dared to come near; elsewhere, fierce melees had erupted with sword and shield and spear, and several of the soldiers had been issued firearms and were now using these to full effect.

Matt heard the ping, crack and roar of a sniper rifle as he caught a blow on the rim of his shield and deflected it, holding his defensive position and taking a small step back to avoid being caught by a second attack. Darius was right next to him, holding his shield up and slicing at one of the tribesmen, drawing blood with every swing of his sword. He was well trained in the art of hand-to-hand combat, that much was obvious; Matt had seen him slay several opponents earlier, taking down each one with strong blows. In a battle as tight as this, there was no room for graceful maneuvering.

In a chaotic rush of renewed energy and anger, the fighting swirled about him and Matt suddenly found himself separated from Darius, face to face with a man who resembled a modern army commander. The fatigues and khakis he wore were outstanding amongst the horde of fur-coated tribesmen, and he was unmistakably carrying an assault rifle, raising it to his shoulder and aiming directly at Matt's head. He was no tribal; his finger squeezed the trigger delicately, and Matt froze like a deer facing headlights, staring at the dark, hollow barrel.

The weapon clicked, and nothing happened; the melee rose and crested around Matt, but his only opponent was the soldier before him, the young man with clean, well-groomed hair holding a defunct assault rifle, glancing first in horror at the weapon and then in anger at Matt, as he pulled the trigger again and again. Another click, and another, three, four, and five.

Matt steadied himself and readied his shield as his opponent threw his useless gun down and drew a sword from his scabbard, holding it in front of his face. Judging by the fluid movements that preceded his first strike, he was equally talented at both blade and firearm.

In a single swift movement, he lunged at Matt, blade outstretched, and the latter had mere milliseconds to raise his shield and take the blow. He was knocked backwards by the force of the charge, and forced to bring up his own sword to hastily, messily deflect another strike. Matt was caught in a flurry of attacks, a whirlwind of steel that demonstrated his opponent's training. In a desperate action, while the other man was winding up for a power strike, Matt took his opportunity and drove his bulky shield forward, straight into his opponent's body.

The strike stumbled the swordsman, knocking him off balance and forcing him to withdraw for a moment. Matt hesitated for a moment, only a moment, before something clicked inside of his brain and he saw his chance. He drove forward, hoping that his momentum could seal the other man's fate, but the swordsman was on his toes and blocked the brutal strike that Matt sent crashing down, and even managed to put Matt back onto the defensive.

But the tide changed when his opponent swung his sword with too much force; Matt deflected it and the blade kept going, striking forward but hitting thin air; Matt, on the other hand, slammed forward with his shield, taking his opponent directly in the face. The sword followed automatically, slicing through flesh and bone with ease.

Matt could feel his opponent's arm loosen almost immediately, all the strength disappear from his body. He went limp, the blood stopped coursing through his veins, and he heard the sharp clang of steel hitting stone as the sword fell to the floor. Matt was just as equally stunned; his blade was lodged deep into his opponent's ribs, now stuck in the cloth and flesh. As he pulled and pulled, his eyes met those of the other man, and he saw his opponent's last light leave his eyes as the sword finally tore free.

The mercenary named Dom fell, brought down by a simple mistake.

VVVVV

Kleiner wiped blood and mud out of his face, as the rains poured down.

What had been a sunny day had turned into a stormy afternoon, as the clouds opened up and the green field became a muddy, treacherous sludge pit.

Three hours had passed since he had led the reinvigorated charge; after the glowstone attack left his troops demoralized and shaken, he had no choice but to lead them from the front, flying the colors high in the midday sun. The two fronts had clashed, and this time no trick cards were to be played; it was man against man, steel against steel, a bitter battle that continued well into the afternoon as the bloated purple thunderheads rolled in from the west and unleashed their natural tyranny upon the earth.

"My lord Kleiner! Head up, keep breathing!"

Two sergeants hauled him by his shoulders, supporting him as he was half-dragged away from the fray.

"My...sword..."

"My lord, we're getting you back to the rear!"

"Grab my fucking sword!" he hissed, writing and squirming. The sergeants held him tight as they muscled past recruits, archers, spearmen, rakes, skirmishers, knights, moving their wounded lord back to the rear. During the melee, well after the rains had begun, Kleiner had taken a crossbow bolt to the hip, and while his armor absorbed most of the blow, it had still punctured his flesh and he could not move without feeling intense pain lancing up his body. His sword was still stuck in the ribs of some unfortunate man-at-arms, who was almost certainly now dead in the mud.

As he was hauled back, Kleiner saw the events of the afternoon sprawled out in the dirty ground. Here were lines of clean, bloodless men lying in their own shit and urine, the victims of ghast tears. Here were soldiers fallen to the heads of arrows and the points of spears, or the trampling feet of their own allies. Here were broken, torn, lacerated bodies scattered haphazardly, a distant memory of boars rampaging ferociously through lines of proud men and crushing them like mice.

"My...sword..."

"My lord, we're getting you to safety, bear with us," one of the attendants begged.

"Damn...damnit..."

The reserves were crawling with wounded or broken men, soldiers who had either been injured in combat or who had simply lost the will to fight and collapsed into sobbing heaps on the ground, unable to battle any longer. As much as Kleiner wanted to send them back to the front, to inspire them to fight for their lords, he knew that it would do no good. They were broken, and they would not fight. And he was too weak to inspire them.

He was hauled into a filthy, disorganized triage where men were either brought to die or were brought for some form of healing. Smaller wounds were cleaned and bandaged, and the men sent back to the field; for others, it was only a matter of having their pain eased before death took them. Kleiner saw many young boys, their eyes wide and their mouths agape, under the effects of morphine as they died slowly, unable to comprehend their body's slow descent into eternal sleep.

"My lord, we'll only be a moment-"

"Be brief, then," Kleiner snapped. "And bring me my commander, I need to know what's going on..."

"My lord, he's not-"

"Then send a courier, damnit!"

"Er...yes, my lord," one of the attendants stuttered, before scurrying out of the triage tent. He was replaced with another, younger nurse. He had with him a vial of a clear aquamarine liquid. Kleiner knew immediately what it was.

"That's not legal, is it?" he inquired, and the two medics exchanged nervous glances. Kleiner sighed, and reached up for the vial.

"Just give it to me. I really don't care."

Confused, the younger nurse handed the healing potion over, and Kleiner drank it in one gulp, swallowing the sweet concoction and savoring the natural flavor in it. Of all of the potions he had tasted, most of them illicit, healing potions tasted and felt the best. Already, the pain in his hip was becoming less and less obnoxious, the burning dissipating with every passing second. Kleiner was able to rise by himself, pushing away the helping hands that try to aid him.

"Get me my damn commander," he ordered scathingly.

"My lord, you need to sit down for a few minutes, let the potion-"

"I need my commander," he repeated. Nobody tried to stop him as he rose; the nurse stuttered, and his hands spasmed as they tried to reach out to restrain Kleiner, but he did not have the willpower or the strength to stop a feudal lord from leaving. Despite still feeling wretched and pained, Kleiner walked out into the downpour and watched as men streamed in, injured or broken.

His commander and trumpeter arrived hastily, both exhausted and bloody. Despite their appearance, Kleiner was impressed that they had received the summons and returned so punctually; he could forgive their less-than-impressive state of being.

"Where is my bannerman?" was his first question, noticing that his flag was missing.

"Dead."

"He's dead, my lord," his commander reported, gasping for breath.

"Alright...what's the other news, then?"

"It's a gridlock down there still. The melee's ongoing, and our bowmen are running out of ammunition. Most of the sergeants have retired their forces, my lord."

"We're out of goddamn arrows? Where's our logistics!?" Kleiner demanded furiously, as an uproar started from behind them.

"They're just...out," the commander sighed, exasperated and at a loss for words.

"What's the news from the other flanks, then?"

"Kastner's pushing forward, Rolf's falling apart. It's hell, and half of our couriers are dead."

"Goddamnit," Kleiner cursed. "Are we even organizing this any longer?"

"My lord, I cannot answer for-"

The hoofbeats began to materialize behind them. All three of the men turned around to watch a horde of armored horsemen barrel past, lances and banners rising high into the cool air. One of them, a sergeant by his colors, stopped to speak with Kleiner.

"My lord. Orders from our king."

"Lord Kastner? What does he demand?"

"All cavalry forward, a charge. Push, push, go on the offensive. That is what I was told to deliver to you, after hearing about your injury. Are you fit for combat?" the sergeant asked, his voice nearly drowned out by the hundreds of horses dashing past.

"I'll do what I can."

"Our king expects you to push. We will be leading the charge, aye," the sergeant finished, and spurring his horse took off, splashing up mud and water.

"Are you willing to lead, my lord?" the commander asked hesitantly as the last of the knights rode past.

"I'll get up there and see what effect it has. Get some horses," he ordered.

They saddled up and, late for the initial charge, rode out to the front. Immediately upon arriving at the field, Kleiner noticed that Antar's main body had either pulled back or had disappeared entirely. The only thing that remained on his side of the hill was a set of earthworks spanning the length of the battlefield. The majority of Antar's troops were either fighting in the thick mud or regrouping to prepare for the cavalry charge.

"Are they pulling back?" Kleiner wondered aloud.

"I don't see any of their reserves left either, my lord."

Where once had stood proud lines of knights and trebuchets, now sat only hastily-constructed earthworks, crude defenses haphazardly thrown together with logs and daubed mud. Kleiner had seen work teams earlier, erecting these barriers quickly, but he did not know what their purpose was for, unless Antar was forced onto the defensive.

"If they retreat, is that their last line of defense?" his commander inquired, his horse nervously whinnying.

"It...perhaps. I don't see any other soldiers," Kleiner noticed, as a fog began to roll up onto the earthworks, concealing them. The rain was beginning to slacken off, but a thick mist was forming upon the wet ground.

Kleiner led his group forward, down towards the fighting below. Antar's troops were making what seemed to be a last-ditch stand in the mud, their shields raised and their spears bristling, as exhausted, demoralized men-at-arms swarmed before them, ready to strike. The knights were almost directly behind them; either the infantry moved away to let the horsemen plow through, or were trampled by the beasts, who could not distinguish friend from foe. It was sickening to watch his own soldiers run down by their comrades, but Kleiner had seen too much death today; this was only adding to the toll.

The armored horsemen plowed into the spears; despite massive casualties, they pressed on, hacking at their footmen opponents who were outmatched in hand to hand combat. Kleiner moved forward on horse, as groups of spearmen and militiamen began to follow him, rallying. Without a banner, it was difficult to create a rally point for his troops, but Kleiner, mounted on a horse and in his heavy armor, stood out amongst the men-at-arms.

Antar's line began to cave in, collapsing under the pressure of mounted assault. Many of the men, exhausted by an entire afternoon of melee combat, began to retreat, slowly at first, then picking up speed as more and more of their comrades joined them. Kleiner felt renewed energy surging through his blood, felt it boil within his veins; now was the chance for vengeance, a chance for the blows dealt earlier in the fight to be avenged. Men, fresh and worn, swirled around him, their shields emblazoned with the entire color spectrum, their weapons flashing in the small hint of sunlight that managed to break through the clouds for a single instant. They charged after Antar's collapsing forces, cavalrymen first, up the hill, trampling over the dead and dying as they climbed.

Kleiner tried to take lead of them, tried to force them forward. Perhaps, perhaps, this battle could go in his favor...

But something felt wrong.

_Very wrong...this can't be, something's amiss._

In the middle of his charge, Kleiner stopped, reining his horse in violently. The animal bucked and fought, but he brought it to a standstill. For a silent moment, he watched as the men sprinted ahead of him, as Antar's men fled over their barricades, as his commander and trumpeter pulled up behind him, confused and unsure of what to do.

And then the earthworks erupted with life. A thousand crossbowmen rose up from hiding, erupting from the mist, and fired their bolts, a volley straight into both the stragglers of Antar's forces and the knights of Kleiner's army.

Hundreds of knights went down, bringing their horses with them. The crossbowmen ducked, and another row leapt out of hiding, and fired their deadly volley. Hundreds of men, expecting little to no resistance, were cut down by the deadly bolts that cut swathes of death through the unexpectant cohorts. What had been a glorious charge was now turning into a hasty rout.

Kleiner watched the entire action unfold from behind the front lines. Hundreds of fresh troops of Antar's dashed out of the fog to take the dazed and shocked attackers by surprise, charging over the breastworks and assaulting them with an unearthly fury.

Kleiner stood, watching in shock as some units held firm while others simply melted under the new attack. He felt frozen for a few moments as he watched what remained of his army either collapse or begin to fight their last battle, trying to stave off the fresh charge.

"Give the signal to pull back. Tell the men to retreat," Kleiner ordered, whirling around to face his trumpeter.

"R-retreat, sir?"

"Give the general order, pull the men back!"

"What about Lord Kastner's for-"

"Retreat, pull them _back_, damnit!" Kleiner shouted, flailing about like a madman. He waved his arms, signaling soldiers to retreat. Some of them did so willingly, but others glanced around, confused, wondering if they should actually pull back.

"Sir, we can hold the line!" his commander argued.

"Pull back, for fu-"

The bolt drove right through his armor at the hip, almost exactly where he had been wounded earlier. It punched through the steel easily and tore through cloth with even less problem, and took him right in between the ribs, a searing pain that was hot at first and then grew hotter.

Kleiner almost instantly fell into shock; he felt his limbs all go numb, felt his head begin to spin, and his vision blur as the pain grew. He tumbled from his horse and hit the ground hard, knocking the wind out of him and for a few seconds eliminating his vision.

When he came to once more he was being dragged through mud and water, as the heavens poured down once again. He could see his trumpeter, all dressed up in his insignias and colors, bloody and exhausted, hauling him past piles of bodies, and past broken and fleeing men.

The battle was ultimately lost. Rolf's forces were crushed, Kleiner's were either in rout or pulling back, and Kastner would soon be surrounded; his men still fought valiantly at their high water mark, the single grove of trees in the middle of the carnage.

Kleiner wanted to shout orders to stand fast, wanted his men to keep on fighting, but he found neither the strength nor the will to do so as he bled out and as his own soldiers died around him. They fell like so many thousands of their comrades had done so before, thrashing in the mud as they died, fallen for a cause that now seemed to pointless, so stupid. Temporaries and permanents, native men and men of Earth, died one and the same.

How could a simple game become a true depiction of hell? How could something so innocent become twisted into a chess game of blood and death, where men gasped for their last breath and died with unspoken words caught in their throats?

Kleiner closed his eyes and savored the sweet cool drops of rain that pounded his forehead as he was dragged away, knowing that the fight had been lost.

VVVVV

Matt trudged past piles of dead bodies, guardsmen and tribals, slain before the doors of the Vault.

Smoke rose from the upper levels of the city, as prefects rushed to put out the fires that were still burning, hot enough to char the stone. Some of the wooden shacks, the slum housing in residential areas, had proven to be tinder for the blaze, and had allowed much of it to spread and gain a foothold within the city. The lower levels were relatively untouched, and most civilians had been safe when the attack occurred.

Darius had been injured in the fight after Matt had been separated from him, but the wound was not grievous, and was already being attended to by a medic when Matt found him.

"So, rumor is you killed a mercenary with a gun. Allow me to rephrase that: a mercenary who _had _a gun," Darius chuckled upon seeing his squire for the first time since the battle. "That's a tale for the ages."

"It jammed," Matt said dryly, wiping sweat from his brow.

"Well, don't spoil it for us," Darius jested.

"I killed him..."

"That much is obvious," Darius said.

"I killed him...I didn't mean to kill him, it just...happened," Matt stammered, remembering every moment of their short duel. It had been such a shock to feel that blade carve through flesh, to feel his body go limp and hear his sword fall to the ground.

"He would've killed you. You should be glad that you dispatched him, you were certainly outmatched," Darius pointed out, wincing as a acrid cleansing solution was applied to a dagger wound on his upper arm.

"It was mostly luck," Matt grumbled.

"Doesn't everything come down to a roll of the dice?" Darius posited, and Matt pondered that idea while his master finished with his care.

The healing ward was full of dying men, most of them untreatable. The Ditch's small supply of NMR medicine and antibiotics was reserved only for worst-case scenarios, and had to be doled out in small rations. Matt was glad to be in and out quickly; Darius only needed to have his wound examined briefly and have details recorded in the logbook. Matt, miraculously, was unhurt besides some minor bruises. When he inquired for some pain medication, he was politely told to fuck off and deal with it.

"They caught us by surprise, but they were no match for our forces. Training and weapons always prevail over brute force and numbers," Darius observed as they walked up one of the large ramps to the upper levels. The battle had been spread out across the city; some areas were completely devoid of bodies, and others were full of corpses and blood. Depending on who had been where, the battle had shifted from level to level throughout the day.

"Where are we going?" Matt asked as they reached the topmost level of the city.

"To the gates."

"To?"

"See outside," Darius replied sternly, and Matt asked no other questions. A number of problems plagued him: what had happened to Kellan, to Aleesha, to Rykar or Royce or Leon? Were they all still alive? Were they dead? Ever since he had squared off against his mysterious mercenary opponent down at the Vault, everything had felt like a nightmare.

They climbed up one of the two towers that stood at the gatehouse, passing a few archers who were taking a break for supper. The rain had stopped a while ago, and had given way to mist and fog. From the two towers, one could see the entire plain before the Ditch, including a tiny stand of trees in the middle of the field. As soon as Matt stepped onto the roof of one of the towers, he could see the carnage.

Where grass and reeds had once been visible, now lay only bodies, thousands, tens of thousands upon that field. The stench of death and injury pervaded the air, a thick blanket of stink that was sure to grow worse. The moans of the dying were even more horrible; even from a few miles away, Matt could hear them, a collective chorus of pain and misery that would go on throughout the night. Both camps looked shrunken and miserable; Kastner's tent city was nearly empty, with only a few hundred soldiers actually visible, and Antar's camp was visibly less crowded.

"I don't think I want to know the outcome," Matt decided.

"The news will come to you whether you want it to or not," Darius warned.

"I...would rather it be later. I've been through enough today," Matt shook his head.

"It will only be more painful then," Darius cautioned, but his warning went unheeded. What Matt needed was sleep, as tomorrow might be an even bigger day. This was the end of the beginning; the first act was almost over, and the second act awaited its players.


	20. Our Haven

**Hello, internet! Exb here with several things!**

**One, sorry for the long update time. Things happened, and stuff.**

**Two...well, this concerns Project HMW, or "Heed My Words". I'm pretty sure that if you're reading this you know about it or have seen these oneshots posted on the site, but this is a campaign to bring the rule of "no non-fictional characters" back to the Minecraft archive and follow the guidelines. This will only apply to future fics-what's done is done-in the hopes that we can follow the guidelines as a community. PM me if you have questions, of course, I will answer.**

**As a show of good faith, then, I will be erasing Carl Manneh from any and all future chapters. He will not be mentioned again. I will respect his privacy.**

**Anyway. Review answers!**

**HPE24: Yes, it was quite grim. And Antar only one because he had a SHITLOAD of soldiers.**

**And poor Dom. At least it gave Matt the chance to become a hero! All this flattery...stahp it you :3**

**Mellifluousness: YOUR REVIEWS ARE SO LONG. GAH. We went over them already anyway :P**

**woohooman14: Well, your wish is answered. Another major battle, right here. It was about damn time, too!**

**Guest: I know who you are! Hehe. And yes, Leon is very old. He's special :3**

**VVVVV**

The fires of the Black Haven's watchtowers burned long into the night, fires feeding on the charcoal and wood tossed into them. The sentinels stood guard, watching, waiting.

Thompson's forces surrounded the Haven. Even in the darkness of night, their ranks were visible, encamped just outside of arrow range. There must've been upwards of thirty thousand of them, all around the moderately-sized fortress. Tents had been pitched, cook fires started, bedrolls place, and siege equipment moved up in preparation for what would be the last gasp of Bryan Kenly's fiefdom.

Kenly himself stood atop the obsidian fortifications, watching with an observant eye as more and more of his foes streamed into the camp and settled down, preparing for what could be a weeks-long siege. They would attack tonight, that much was certain; but if the assault could be thrown back, then the siege would begin. Either way, Kenly's kingdom was at it's terminus.

As he stood on the battlements, surrounded by wary archers, he reflected on the events that had led up to this point. Ever since that disastrous day on the plains outside of Delphos, one of the first days of spring, he had slowly been retreating, forced onto the defensive by his more cunning opponent. Thompson, in lieu of his successes, had been spreading across the region now, antagonizing Connaughtsshire and most likely attempting to make a move against Swampheart someday, if he could get through the Accursed Jungle.

One tactical disaster...that was all it took. And now, on the brink of destruction, it was time to go out with a bang.

"Every battlement is defended, my lord. The men are ready," General Corrigan reported. Corrigan was the last soldier that Kenly could depend on; all of the nobles had absconded or had hidden themselves deep within the Haven, helpless and hapless. All of the land they had once owned, be it upon the river or in the forest, was now in enemy hands, and they had nothing to lose by fleeing to Thompson or hiding from the fighting. Corrigan owed his life to Kenly's cause; thus, he was out on the battlements, there to stand and fight and die with his soldiers if need be.

"Good. Have them stay ready."

"Do you expect an attack, my lord?" Corrigan asked.

"I would expect Thompson to finish this as soon as he can. You can tell those men out there are eager for blood, they will try to charge us tonight," Kenly knew.

Thompson's men had brought ladders along; no siege towers, but large wooden ladders that would be difficult to push down. The wood could be set alight, but even that might be difficult; it was rainforest wood, taken from the massive trees of the Accursed Jungle to the east, and such trees were heavily resistant to fire.

"What should we do about the gate?"

"Leave it. They will not be foolish enough to attack the gate. Have bowmen stand guard in the gatehouse, and militia ready in case they try to break it down," Kenly ordered.

"You don't think they'll even move against it?"

"They'd be fools to do so."

And Thompson was not a fool, that much was clear. In years past, perhaps, he had squandered resources and time on his measly army of ragtag peasants, but as of late he had been honing both his troops and skills, and recruiting extra men to his side. The result was that the victor was to become the vanquished; Kenly would finally be beaten.

_And to think...this was all because of a slime. Such a pitiful cause for so much death._

"How many do we have on the walls?" Kenly asked offhandedly.

"About two thousand up on the battlements, and another four thousand in wait. Plus five hundred in the citadel, my lord," Corrigan answered with rigid efficiency, rattling off the numbers without pause.

"Good. That's something."

"They have upwards of 30,000, my lord. We are gravely outnumbered," Corrigan pointed out.

"Yes, and since when have numbers made the difference?"

Corrigan was briefly stumped, and Kenly seized his opportunity to walk down closer to the parapets and, moving several crossbowmen aside, looked down upon the field below.

A smooth rampart of earth, covered in thousands of thick tufts of swirling green grass, led up to the black obsidian walls, which jutted out of the dirt at a straight ninety-degree angle, rising about fifty feet. Lamps hung over the parapets illuminated the smooth surface of the wall, the sheeny black stone reflecting the light in dull fashion.

The Black Haven had been built in the shape of a large square, six-hundred feet by six-hundred feet, with a citadel, barracks and well inside. Underneath of the actual castle was quarter space for hundreds of soldiers, as well as storage and old tunnels that had been used for mining long ago. The tunnels had mostly collapsed, but obsidian girders had been installed in several of the larger shafts and they were still operational, used to haul goods between storage rooms and transport troops in and out of the castle without using the main gate.

_One of those tunnels is our only escape route, should our defense fail_, Kenly thought as Corrigan approached him again.

"My Lord Kenly? The planning room?"

"Er...yes, right," Kenly cleared his throat, suddenly remembering that he still had to dispense orders to his captains. He followed Corrigan along the battlements and down a flight of stairs to the barracks, which was adjoined to the western wall of the castle along with the livery and well.

The planning room was for captains only; it was not like the massive conference chamber in the citadel, where Kenly, Corrigan and his closest advisors had plotted their every move for years.

_Most of my advisors have either given up...or abandoned me. The man I trusted most was one of the latter_.

The hooded man had never revealed his face, never lifted his veil, and yet Kenly had trusted him for months. He had never failed to deliver correct information, even when the tide of the war shifted, and now he had run off, disappearing into the night like so many other lords and advisors.

_I have some few loyal men left_, Kenly thought proudly, knowing that Corrigan would die by his side.

"Your captains await your command, my Lord," Corrigan swept his hand across the dim room.

_Seven captains...seven leaders of nearly seven thousand men. This is not enough._

"There are only seven of you? Where are the rest?" Kenly inquired angrily.

"They have fled, my lord-"

"Damn them," Kenly spat. "Cowards, turncloaks-"

"These men are still loyal to you, my lord," Corrigan interrupted gently. "Don't dwell on those you have lost, turn your attention to those you still have," he advised, pointing once more to the mailed leaders still waiting for their orders and designations.

"Right...of course. We're staying on the defensive," Kenly announced, slightly shaken. "The only thing we need to do is hold the walls and the main gate. There's no other way into the castle that our enemy is aware of."

"What of the tunnel, my lord?" a young captain asked.

"Reserves will watch it. Thompson is not aware of that tunnel's existence, he will attempt to assault the castle itself," Kenly answered.

"We should not place our faith in assumptions," Corrigan warned.

"No, but we can place our faith in armed men," Kenly returned. "The reserves will be able to respond to any intrusion at a place that we don't expect. That is why they're put in _reserve_," Kenly narrowed his eyes.

"Of course, my Lord," Corrigan became silent.

"We can have this castle locked down. They have to come to us, and we'll be waiting for them. All you need to do is hold these walls. Is that clear?" Kenly asked, now confident.

The captains all rose and murmured their assent; they did not echo their lord's newfound confidence, but they stood tall and donned their helmets with determination. They marched out of the room in single file, bowing awkwardly to Kenly as they rushed to leave. In the distance, a thunderclap rumbled out of the clear night.

"Half of them will not survive the night," Corrigan predicted. Kenly could not contest him on that point; Thompson's men would throw all of their strength upon the walls, and the battle would be bloody.

"Ensure that our archers are well-supplied, General," Kenly ordered, returning to the battlements. "Have each captain take stock of their supplies, make sure they are well-armed-"

Before he could finish speaking, Kenly was cut off by the clear cry of a clarion warhorn cutting through the warm night air, followed by another and yet another, brass trumpets echoing the cries of battle, the horns of war rising to trumpet the coming of bloodshed. Pushing past several milling militiamen, Kenly hurried to the parapet and looked down at the sea of tents. They were milling with soldiers, all getting assembled and ready for combat.

"Is it too late to send out an envoy, my lord?" Corrigan asked, slightly unnerved now.

"There will be no parlay. Thompson means to end this."

"It does seem like it..."

Kenly saw vague shapes, large shapes, moving amongst the camp, but it was too distant to make them out. He could see lines of armored men forming up, organized into neat squares by platoon, and could hear more trumpets giving the call to arms.

"Have the horns sounded. All archers readied, all men at their posts," Kenly ordered. Corrigan muttered his assent, and disappeared back along the battlements. Only seconds later, the first warhorn cried out, and then another, all along the walls of the Black Keep. Taut bow strings twanged gently as arrows were nocked; all around him, Kenly heard the muffled grinding of tiny gears as crossbows were loaded and readied.

"Stocks are full and ready, my lord," Corrigan reported as he returned, breathless.

"Good. Are the men ready?"

"Aye, sir."

"Good. Let them come, then," Kenly said, gripping the cold black stone firmly as thunder clapped, closer than before. Drums began to beat outside of the fortress, men lined up in formation, bearing halberds, glaives, pikes, spears, hammers, warforks, bows, and slings, all readied for combat. Here and there groups of fur-armored, shaggy hulks had assembled into loose formations, Tribesmen of the Pass who had been paid off by Thompson to take this castle.

_They're arrow fodder. Does he really expect such brutes to take walls from experienced men? _Kenly wondered to himself as the drums beat louder, as the archers around him waited patiently for their quarry to begin their approach.

"You want the men to open fire, sir?" Corrigan asked.

"Wait until you can clearly see their torches."

They didn't have to wait for too long. Instead of marching in orderly file, Thompson's men charged the wall; a single warhorn sounded, followed by a loud rumble of thunder, and thousands of them began to run towards the castle, shields raised about their heads as they parted the gloom of the night and entered Kenly's field of vision. They had ladders, too; the tribesmen were the ones carrying the ladders, hoisting them up and carrying them up to the walls. They were massive constructions, but small enough to be lifted and set up to the walls by several men.

"Give the command. Have the archers open fire," Kenly ordered, watching the wave of shields advanced across the field.

Corrigan was on the mark; he gave the order to the nearest sergeants, and down the line the cry for fire rang out. Crossbows sang, bows twanged, and hundreds of deadly projectiles were loosed from the castle's defenders, flying out into the night.

Kenly knew that it wouldn't be terribly effective; the shields absorbed many of the arrows, protecting the horde of troops below. A few of the men-at-arms fell, but the first wave of projectiles had been useless.

"Aim for the ladders, fire at the ladder-bearers!" Kenly ordered, and once more Corrigan took up the command, and down the line the archers were ordered to aim at the tribesmen struggling up a smooth slope with their siege gear. Kenly could see men go down, hefty brutes fall to their knees as they were taken by the deadly missiles, but each time one man fell another emerged from the shields to take his place. It was as if a giant tortoise was approaching the castle, with numerous replacements just waiting to take their place at the ladders.

"They're not slowing down," Corrigan noted calmly.

"Aye. They'll get to the walls, but they won't take them."

Kenly knew he sounded overly confident, but he had to tell himself that victory was within his grasp; if he couldn't remain confident, there was no way his men would.

Down below, the ladders drew ever closer; Kenly could see the tortoises encroaching upon the walls, now traveling more slowly and carefully as missiles continued to hail down from ahead. In one area the shields were so densely packed together that there was no space between them; it was literally a tortoise, with every arrow embedding itself in the shields or bouncing harmlessly off the rims.

"My Lord, ladders up!" Corrigan warned, and Kenly scanned the wall all the way down to the junction between the Eastern Gatehouse and the angled part of the East Wall, where two ladders had gone up.

"Have the crossbowmen redirect their fire at the ladders! Give the order to all archers!" Kenly cried as thunder roared ahead, lightning flashing and briefly illuminating the surging horde in front of him.

More ladders rose up, scaling the walls; the sounds of hand-to-hand combat, the unmistakable din of steel upon steel, sounded from the Eastern and Northern walls; Kenly, facing South, could see more men still coming up, more ladders destined for any weak point they could find.

"Should we set the ladders ablaze?" Corrigan asked, ready to give the order.

"Get torches, have them-"

At that moment, the clouds exploded in a final burst of energy and the heavens opened up. Drenching rain poured down upon the battlements, putting out the fires not fueled by oil or tar and dousing every exposed man with cold water.

"Damned weather, damn it all..."

"Sir, the ladders!?" Corrigan asked again.

"Let the bastards come!" Kenly spat, drawing his blade from its sheath. "We'll meet them and give them a stinging blow they'll not forget for years to come!"

Corrigan reluctantly followed Kenly as he found his way to a part of the battlement where a ladder had gone up. The crossbowmen garrisoning that part of the wall were already firing down at the attackers below, who were raising their shields in a desperate bid to absorb or deflect the deadly bolts.

"Get some real blades up here," Kenly snarled when several of the crossbowmen drew their dirks, lesser swords that were made of softer iron.

Corrigan called for men-at-arms, who rushed to the site and prepared themselves for an onslaught of attackers. Despite the missiles from above, Thompson's troops continued to climb, and the first one up the ladder presented a shining edge of steel and a heavy shield at he jumped down onto the wall.

This was the crucial moment that decided whether or not the wall would be taken; if this one man were cut down now, his comrades behind him would stand no chance, as they, one-by-one, would suffer the same fate. But the soldier held his ground, knocking Kenly's blow aside, deftly dodging the pitiful prick of an archer's dirk and blocking with his shield an incoming swing from one of the men-at-arms. His comrades fell in behind him, and even after he took Kenly's blade through his gut the attackers kept on flowing.

After two minutes of fierce combat, Kenly was forced to fall back, exasperated and wounded. He had taken a blade across the arm, and while it was only a light injury, it still bled, and Corrigan had to haul him back while men-at-arms and militiamen rushed in to stem the tide of hostiles flowing up the ladder.

"Get me a doctor, or a healer, or something, goddamnit," Kenly sputtered, slumping against the obsidian ramparts as arrows whizzed harmlessly overhead. Everywhere along the wall ladders had gone up, and the exchange of missiles had turned into a deadly hand-to-hand battle between men of all colors and origins.

"My Lord, we've got a healer coming with gauze," Corrigan assured him.

"It doesn't hurt, but I don't want to be bleeding all over the place-"  
"I understand, my lord."

Kenly noticed something large moving in the darkness of Thompson's horde, barely illuminated by a scattered array of torches. It looked like a wooden shed, but at least two hundred feet long, moving on wheels, and covered in an ugly array of tarps and leather nailed to a wooden frame.

"What the hell is that?" Kenly inquired cautiously, noticing the massive building moving slowly through the haze of rain.

"Some sort of siege machine."

"Are they trying to ram the walls?" Kenly asked, incredulously.

"I...I don't know, my lord. I can't tell what it is," Corrigan replied. "You should get back to-"

"Yes, help me to my feet. I want to do some killing," Kenly growled eagerly.

Corrigan offered a mailed hand, slick with rainwater, and helped Kenly back into an upright position. A healer came forward, emerging from the midst of a group of exhausted-looking archers, and brought with him a roll of wet gauze, soaked with rain. Despite the health risks he knew it carried, Kenly was glad for the cool feeling of the water on his wound as the healer clumsily wrapped the bandages around his injury.

"I'm sorry, sir, my gauze is wet-"

"It's better than nothing, thank you," Kenly appreciated his services.

"Sir? The wall, sir?" Corrigan reminded him.

"Yes, grab some reinforcements and we'll try to plug up any breaches!" Kenly announced.

He ignored the massive shed, whatever the hell its purpose was, and pushed past Corrigan as he began to dash down the battlements. Most of the defenses seemed to be holding; there was fighting, much of it heavy, but Kenly's soldiers were far better trained than Thompson's, and in a fair fight they would almost always win. When it came down to steel and steel, his own men-at-arms were prevailing; only when crushed by numbers did they fail to stem the tide.

At one of the hot points, where the fighting was heaviest, Kenly found one of the captains, one of his own sergeants, lying in a pool of dark blood, up against the ramparts. He was lucky to have the healer following him-the man had decided it would be best to tag along with his liege lord-and immediately the doctor knelt before the injured captain.

"He's lost a lot of blood. I can't do anything about a grievous puncture wound, I'm sorry," the healer spoke honestly.

"There's just too many of them. We can't...hold them forever," the wounded man sputtered, wincing visibly.

"We'll hold them for as long as we can," Kenly promised. "We just need more-"

The shockwave came first, and then the sound of the explosion. The former was far more powerful; it knocked all of the men to their feet, as well as threw down the soldiers surrounding them. Several of the ladders that had been thrown up against the obsidian walls were felled by the force of the blast, crushing countless soldiers beneath them. A bright yellow light had flashed, and then Kenly felt his head hit the obsidian hard and lost his breath for a moment.

The utter silence following the explosion was the worst part; for a moment, it seemed like the entire world had died. There was no sound but the pattering of rain on the battlements, the splashing of each little droplet as it interacted with the obsidian work. But then, slowly, men around him stirred, weakly, groaning and writhing as they struggled to rise. Peering over the interior edge of the wall, Kenly could see a massive crater within his own wall, right where the barracks had been.

_So that was what that giant shed was for...they dug a hole and planted explosives in there._

Kenly had experimented with primitive gunpowder-based explosives before, but they were just as often destructive for his forces as well as for his enemy's. Thompson had taken a dicey risk in using explosives to burrow under Kenly's walls; it had certainly paid off, at least for now. The obsidian was unharmed, but the stone foundation beneath it was badly damaged, and the massive hole was already admitting advance parties of enemy soldiers into the keep.

"Enemies in the keep! Enemies in the keep!" Kenly raised the battlecry, already rising to his wobbly feet. Corrigan was bruised and battered, but he pulled himself up and managed to stand up straight. The healer did not move; Kenly could see a darker fluid spreading out from beneath his head, but that was not his primary concern at the moment.

_What is one man's life, against a thousand?_

"Get the reserves up there, stem that breach!" Kenly ordered furiously. He called the alarum again, his head still throbbing from the explosion's shockwave. They had only to dig into the soft loam underneath the obsidian walls and place a few bombs down there...and now they had a massive entryway into the castle, a smooth slope up which dozens of levies and halberdiers scrambled.

"Goddamn them...General, with me. We're pulling the hell back," Kenly decided.

"Pulling...b-back, my lord?" Corrigan inquired hastily.

"To the citadel!"

"The walls still hold-"

"They won't for long," Kenly said, and both of them knew it; there weren't enough men in the castle to hold both a massive breach as well as the walls. Even now, several areas of the battlements were being overrun, as Thompson threw cohort after cohort unto the sleek battlements. Corpses tumbled from the walls, so thick were they in some areas; they condensed in small hills at the bottom, now thoroughly soaked with rain and covered in mud.

"Call each unit back, an organized retreat," Kenly ordered, glancing back and forth between one area of the wall and the breach. "Have the men pull back!"

"Aye, my lord..."

Corrigan was hesitant, but he could not defy a command. He sounded the call for retreat, audible even over the clash of arms down below and all around, even over the peal of thunder that erupted at that very moment. From where he stood, Kenly could see the confusion in his ranks as they turned around, searching for their liege.

_They're not sure what to do. Retreat doesn't seem possible for them..._

"Retreat, back to the citadel! Close the breach and pull back to the citadel!" Kenly called out, deciding to take matters into his own hands.

The soldiers nearest to him were confused, but they singled down the stairs in an orderly fashion, pulling back in an organized retreat.

_Just as they were trained to do,_ Kenly thought, with an edge of bitter pride. _A fighting retreat. There's some glory to be found in failure_.

It seemed that the attack up the ladders had lost some of its vigor, now that a new aperture in the Haven's defenses had opened up, but levies and peasants still came up, soaking wet and exhausted from the climb, brandishing crude warforks, dirks and spears. They seemed content with seizing the abandoned turrets and ramparts of the walls, and few of them pursued the retreating bands of men-at-arms; those who did were promptly cut down as they attempted to press their offensive, slain by more experienced, hardcore soldiers.

To his dismay, Kenly saw several areas of the wall still holding as he pulled his men back, followed closely by Corrigan. Here and there pockets of bowmen or men-at-arms were desperately attempting to force the attackers back, now from three different sides; they would be overwhelmed if they did not heed the call to retreat. Stepping down into the soggy turf, Kenly ordered Corrigan to sound the call again.

"My lord, the retreat has been sounded-"

"It seems not all have heeded it. Once more, before we pull back," Kenly ordered, and his general obliged.

Many of the soldiers were too engaged to pull back; despite his reservations, Kenly was forced to draw back into the citadel, resigned to leaving a quarter of his force outside of the gates. Archers up on the citadel towers covered the main retreat as brave men-at-arms engaged the flood of enemy levies at the crater, throwing their lives away for a noble but ultimately futile cause. Kenly himself was one of the last men through the citadel doors before the watchmen shut them; with a pang of regret, he glanced back at the surging melee at the crater before the strong hands of General Corrigan ushered him inside and the heavy iron doors shut. The bolts were put in place, and men rushed to erect barricades in case battering rams were brought up.

"My lord, we've abandoned them!" was the first thing Kenly heard as soon as he was in safety. One of the captains, a leader of men, his face splattered with blood, approached him slowly, appearing half-crazed.

"We had no choice, the walls cannot hold," Kenly announced so that all could hear, but he spoke to the captain.

"Men still hold them!"

"But they won't stand for long!" Kenly barked. "We're outnumbered and our defenses are breached, we have no choice but to hole up here-"

Kenly could see a shadow of discontent on the faces of the common soldiers, veiled behind mud and blood; he could see defeat in their eyes, as their confidence collapsed just like their defenses had. He had no words to inspire them now; they were a little less than one thousand, against thirty thousand or more. Thompson would have this citadel by dawn, even if the price in blood was enormous.

"As long as the gates are held, we stand a fighting chance," Corrigan spoke, saying the words that Kenly could not bring himself to speak. Corrigan was being overly optimistic-impossibly optimistic, perhaps-but he seemed to mollify the men nearest to him, who resumed their work with a grim, if perhaps more positive attitude. The harsh twangs of crossbows could be heard from the balconies lining the citadel above.

"My Lord, if they have battering rams-"

"I assume they do," Kenly interrupted, stalking off to the sidelines with Corrigan in tow.

"The gate won't hold for long. It was made to stop men, not a ram," Corrigan warned.

"I know, but it'll slow them down, and they'll have a hell of a time getting through."

"It might be wiser to surrender, my lord."

Kenly would never bend his knee or wave the white flag in Thompson's face; he would rather see the Black Haven burn and watch its fields be salted than give in to his decades-old opponent. This was the final battleground; king would take king, and the chess match would finally cease.

"There will be no surrendering."

"Think of the men, sir," Corrigan pleaded. "Are their lives worth an honorable death?"

"We're going down with our ship, General," Kenly stood firm. "Every man will do his duty until the bitter end. This is the terminus of our era, and we will make a bloody, fiery end of it."

Kenly could see the defeat in his general's eyes as well; the man had been through hell and high water, leading his cohorts to glorious victories before the ruins of Delphos, and the end seemed unthinkable, intangible. And yet it was here, preparing to bash down the last line of defense for the castle.

It was then that intervention arrived, not in the form of heavenly powers or a miracle, but in the form of mercy.

As Kenly watched soldiers stack furniture up against the door, and distribute fresh spears and swords, he heard the twang of crossbows cease, and suddenly the sounds of fierce melee from outside came to a halt, slowly and calmly. Within the span of a minute, there was nothing but the rain pounding on the citadel walls, and the occasional clap of thunder.

"They're dead," Corrigan stated bluntly.

"Aye...but everything's quiet now. What the hell is going on out there?" Kenly asked, just before one of the crossbowmen appeared on the balconies above, directly over Kenly.

"My Lord?"

"What's happening out there?" Kenly asked, ignoring the formalities.

"The remaining of our troops have surrendered. Thompson's calling a ceasefire, he wishes to deliver a message to you!" the soldier reported.

"A message?"

"An ultimatum, I believe," Corrigan said.

"Tell them to wait. I will come on up there," Kenly announced, and the crossbowmen bowed awkwardly and disappeared once more from the edge of the balcony. He noticed that the eyes of every other warrior in the hall were now trained on him; he was aware of the vague, concerned gazes, each face a picture telling a war story. These men had sacrificed their strength and blood to defend this fortress, and now Kenly was being given the option to surrender?

"Do you plan to concede the fortress to him?" Corrigan inquired, loud enough for the attentive men-at-arms to hear.

"I plan to listen to him, and only that," Kenly replied firmly. He was hoping that those words instilled some faith into his men; he would not surrender, but deep in his heart he knew it would be wrong to allow every last soldier to die in these halls. Something had to be done.

"Stay here, General. I will return shortly."

"My Lord-"

"Stay. Have the men hold fast. I will be back in only a few minutes," Kenly promised, already marching off. He was alone, now; no retainers, no escorts, no generals or captains to stand by him. No banner-bearers, no musicians drumming a marching rhythm, no heralds to call out his arrival. It was he, and he alone who ascended the stairs to the balcony and marched on, in full view of every man in the main hall.

The battlement outside was slick with rain, and populated by only a few crossbowmen who looked haggard and desperate. Outside, assembling in the castle courtyard, was a vast host of foes; they had massed battering rams and sappers in their midst, and hundreds of levies and militia were preparing to support them should they break in. The towers on the obsidian walls flew the banners of Thompson, something Kenly never thought he'd see.

_The Haven flies the colors of another lord...this day has finally come. How do we stand a fighting chance?_

"Bryan. You look worn."

That voice was unmistakable; for the first time in perhaps years, Kenly found himself twenty feet above his hated opponent, Brad Thompson, who was decked out in fine plate armor and plumed helmet. He removed his helm out of respect, cradling it beneath his arm as he spoke.

"Do away with the formalities. What do you want of me?" Kenly asked.

"Your fortress, for the lives of your men. You surrender the Haven, and you and your soldiers walk away freely. No harm done, you keep your weapons and supplies. That, in exchange for the Haven," Thompson spoke, weary.

"You ask me to hand you the prize I've fought to defend for centuries?"

"Do you value the lives of your men?" Thompson asked.

"They are more valuable than castle walls," Kenly replied cautiously.

"And you would spill their blood for a pointless cause, then?"

"This castle is all that stands of their realm. They will die defending it," Kenly stated proudly. His opponent, however, scoffed mockingly.

"You assume that your men will give their lives for black rock," he snorted.

"They have already tonight, and they will do so until we have no one left," Kenly continued to speak.

"Surrender, Bryan. This conflict was ultimately pointless, but you are only dragging it on and wasting so much potential. Lower your banners, and you will have peace and mercy," Thompson promised.

"I will not bend my knee to you," Kenly seethed, emphasising every word.

"I pray that you reconsider. I give you until morning," Thompson said, before turning around and departing. He disappeared into the misty veil of falling rain, mingling with the large group of soldiers who were spreading out and taking their positions across the castle, throwing the banners of Thompson up on the towers.

Kenly, his plate dripping with rain, turned around in disgust and re-entered the citadel. The crossbowmen were left outside in the cold, watching the enemy disperse silently. No more missiles were exchanged; no more arrows fired, no more fighting to be done that night. Kenly was trapped like a wild animal, its leg caught in a snare; he had nowhere to run, for Thompson would surely find the tunnels underneath the castle, if he hadn't already. And besides, there would be too many men to move out; a few might be able to escape, but not thousands.

General Corrigan managed to catch up as Kenly stalked back to the planning room. Nobody else followed him; the soldiers had either gone to bed, desperate for sleep after their battle. Very few of them would be ready to fight once more in the morning, but Kenly would not budge.

"What did he tell you?" Corrigan asked.

"We have until morning."

"Do you plan to give up the citadel?"

"I do not plan to do anything different," Kenly spoke, sitting down in front of the large obsidian table map.

"Did he give you a choice, then?"

"He did. He says he will offer mercy if we surrender," Kenly said.

"What will you tell him if he inquires?" Corrigan asked, concerned. "He will come back at dawn."

"What will I tell him?"

"Yes...sir?"

"I will tell him that we will stand on this black stone, and die. We have lived here, fought here, bled here, and died here. And we will make our stand _here_, for this is _our _haven."


	21. Things Fall Apart

**Hello internet! Exb here, with good(?) news!**

**I've got a bunch of projects planned out during the time I was writing this chapter, and although I haven't started writing yet, I'm getting details together! So that's something to be excited about...I think!**

**REVIEW ANSWERS:**

**HPE24: The fortress? DEAD!? PAH. THE FORTRESS SHALL NEVER DIE! And this chapter was supposed to be dedicated to Kenly and Thompson, and I deliberately left the mainies out since this is their focus :P**

**woohooman14: Antar's invasion has taken the Ditch...for now. They won't stand down forever...**

**Bfheadgamer: Your suspicions are correct. They started their argument because Thompson killed Kenly's pet slime on an old Minecraft server. Funny how little disputes grow, isn't it?**

**Foundry Cove: That bat is still coming! Don't worry!**

**VVVVV**

Thomas Brennan received the news and had little to say about it.

He had known that Kastner was marching to his doom, and when word came of the defeat it was not accompanied by shock or surprise. But it was unnerving all the same; now all that stood between Antar and domination of the Western Lands was the city of Crestan, Brennan's meager levy force and the remnants of Kleiner's army. Very little.

What _was _surprising, however, was that his main concern was focused elsewhere. Instead of re-reading that letter again and again, trying to pore over every word and process every sentence, he was watching the distant volcano, a waking giant rumbling over the abandoned city of New Connaught. In this moment, the metropolis looked almost peaceful; empty of almost all of its denizens, save the homeless and the incredibly poor, the once-grand capital had an almost rustic look to it, like a still-life painting without any inhabitants. It would not last long; the mountain was reaching its climax, and the final act of the rumbling giant would begin within minutes.

It had come earlier than expected; the geologists had been incorrect in their assumption. The mountain was more active than expected, and today seemed like it would be the day.

Brennan was not at all surprised when the ground beneath his feet began to shake, as if rocked about by a subterranean monster yearning to escape. Slowly, the plume of noxious smoke and gases rose from the cone of the distant mountain, forty miles away, commingling with each other and rising into the clear blue sky.

And then the mountain exploded.

While it didn't come as a surprise, it certainly knocked everybody to the ground, including Brennan himself; every single camp follower, retainer, soldier and commoner in the camp, the massive tent city outside of the capital, was thrown to the ground by the power of the blast, rendered temporarily helpless by the magnitude of the eruption. Stunned briefly, Brennan struggled to get back to his feet as the sky began to darken, the sun dimmed by the ash and debris being belched forth from the mountain. It had happened so quickly; a flash of light, a spurt of fire, an earsplitting roar and the force rushing out in a wave across the green fields.

Brennan struggled to his feet just in time to see the side of the mountain cave in as the wall of pyroclastic hell surged down the crumbling framework, racing for the city. Nobody still within that metropolis would survive; the mighty wave of ash, heat and energy raced for the stone walls, overtaking anything in its path.  
There was nothing _anybody _could do at this point; the only thing the men in camp could do was watch, their hearts sinking, as the pyroclastic flow overtook the stone walls and swallowed the city, as the mountain belched forth a massive cloud of gas and debris and the life-giving light of the sun disappeared.

VVVVV

Brad Thompson was aware of his visitor when he heard the tent flaps rustle; it was a subtle sound, but he had trained his ears to detect such noises, and swiveled on the spot when he heard it.

The flaps revealed a man without a face, the spy who had hidden his facade every time he had been held in the eyes of another man. The hooded stranger, who had served Thompson so well, had finally returned.

"You left me," Thompson declared as he stood up, the unfinished note still lying on his writing table.

"Yes, I'm afraid to say I did so-"

"That is desertion."

"Can it be desertion if I never really served you?" the hooded man asked, almost playfully.

"What are you playing at?" Thompson asked, now thoroughly unnerved. The snake had always made him anxious, but now more than ever he felt insecure around this shadowy man who no longer claimed to be in his service.

"I'm playing at nothing. Put the pieces together, my friend," the man sneered.

"You swore an oath to me."

"Oaths are nothing but words," the hooded man replied.

"Unbreakable vows," Thompson said, his eyes narrowing. "You broke your oath, I'm sure you know the old laws."

"Laws are subject to change."

"Not something as old as that, as ingrained into our society as the oath rites," Thompson replied firmly. "You broke your oath, and yet you dare to come back to me. I'm surprised your audacity does not extend even further...you still refuse to show your face to me."

"Well, I suppose the preamble is now over. Perhaps it's time you saw who I truly am," the spy leered, and threw back his hood. He was normal, totally normal, Thompson noticed; looked like any other strong, able man, except for his eyes. Those purple tints...so unnatural, so...alien.

"Your...eyes..."

"I'm glad you noticed. I was afraid that the light would be too dim," the other man chuckled.

"You are Enderborn. Your kind was supposed to be dead, I've read my history," Thompson spoke, more quietly now. He was not afraid, but nervous.

"Perhaps your history is different from mine, then?"

"What do you want from me?" Thompson was in no mood to play any sort of game, especially with the likes of this man. His trust had only gone so far; now that the spy was rogue, there was nothing about him that could be believed. Thompson wanted to call for the sentries, but he had to play this coolly; if anything went down, someone would hear it.

"There's not much I want _from _you, Mr. Thompson. There is one thing I want you to do..."

Thompson saw his hand flicker the instant that his sentence cut off, and had his own dagger out, ready to strike. But in the blink of an eye, the man was no longer standing in front of him; in another blink of an eye, a strong arm looped around Thompson's throat and pinioned him against a heavy body, and Thompson felt the cold embrace of deadly steel driving in through the back of his neck.

"It would be nice if you could _die_, Mr. Thompson. No struggling, now...I would much appreciate it," the Enderborn smiled devilishly, as Thompson's vision began to go black. Caught in the arms of a man far stronger than him, and with a knife plunging through his throat, he only had seconds to live. In his last moments, his gaze trailed upwards and, for the last time, he saw those dark purple eyes, full of malice.

VVVVV

The banners of Thompson still fluttered upon the walls of the Black Haven; it was dawn now, and Bryan Kenly's ages-old opponent would be coming soon. Very soon, a messenger would be arriving that would bid him to open the gates and parlay with Thompson; Kenly had not changed his mind, though, and he had no intent of surrendering. Orders had been dispensed, troops formed up and ready just before dawn. If there was to be a fight, this would be the last, glorious stand.

"Are you really ready to die here, my lord?" General Corrigan asked, refusing to take a seat at the table.

"As willing as ever. What better place would there be?"

"It would be better to _not _die, my lord..."

"Well, I was given a choice. I have made my decision," Kenly stated firmly. "You may depart if you please. The tunnels are still an option-"

"That would be the coward's way out," Corrigan said harshly. "And I am not a coward."

"Nor am I accusing you of being one," Kenly smiled slightly. "You've stood by me through all of this. Send the steward to grab me a drink, please."

"Your steward has...deserted, sir."

"Did he take the coward's way out?" Kenly asked, just to be certain.

"He left one way or another. Deserted to the other side, or just fled altogether. I shall grab your drink, my lord," Corrigan offered.

"Thank you."

Corrigan was gone longer than expected; Kenly sat for nearly ten minutes at the table, studying the map that depicted the Delphos area, before his general returned with a stoneware mug, filled to the quarter-mark with amber brandy.

"Did you have trouble finding some?" Kenly inquired.

"I'm sorry, my lord?"

"You took a while to get my drink. I'm just curious."

"There wasn't much down in storage, I had to search for a while," Corrigan answered. He hesitated for a moment, as if unsure about how to reply. Kenly wondered if there was another reason for his long absence, but he decided to forget the matter and took a genial sip of the alcohol, savoring the sweet warmth as it plummeted down his throat.

"What about the men?"

"I am going to give them the option to leave via the tunnels or stand and fight. It is folly to hold their lives in my hand," Kenly said.

"Isn't that a bit counterintuitive, my lord? You mean to hold the fortress, but if you allow soldiers to depart you'll lose a good chunk of your garrison," Corrigan pointed out.

"I realize the folly of the matter. What else would you have me do?"

"I do not know, my lord," Corrigan answered.

"Would you have me surrender?"

"I think it is the wiser option, yes," Corrigan said honestly.

"Perhaps you are right. I think you are right, but that does not sway my decision, no," Kenly took another drink, and began to pace around the table. "There are many here who will fight for me, yes..."

"I know there are men who will die. When will you give them their choice?" Corrigan asked.

"When our final ultimatum arrives. I will notify those who assemble that they have a choice," Kenly said, downing more of the brandy. It was warmer than normal; it almost stung going down, but he swallowed it, forcing it down his throat.

On cue, a disheveled man in crude mail armor dashed into the room, stopping midway through the threshold of the door.

"Do we have our visitor?" Kenly asked, apprehensive about what this message was. The man was obviously a courier; he came bearing news of some form.

"My lord...Thompson..."

"Is he here?" Corrigan inquired.

"I...don't know, my lord. He's...apparently dead..."

Both Kenly and Corrigan were silent for a moment before the former stood up, leaving his brandy down on the table.

"Dead?" Kenly asked, his voice dropping quickly.

"His camp's a mess, it's breaking up, lesser lords are fighting each other for...who knows what reasons...what I heard is, that he's dead," the messenger spoke, gripping the frame of the doorway for support.

"It can't be...how?" Kenly asked.

"Nobody knows, sir. Rumors spread, but it seems like Thompson is either dead or fled. His camp...it's in disarray, my lord, total disarray."

Kenly paced the room once and then sat back down in his chair, drinking deeply from his cup.

"Thank you, courier. You may go."

The messenger bowed haphazardly, and then departed.

"Is that all you wanted from him? Don't you want to confirm this?" Corrigan asked, still standing. Kenly shook his head as he grabbed the brandy.

"I can believe him. At least, for the most part. If Thompson is indeed dead, then everything has shifted in our favor."

"His troops are still encamped outside of our walls. They still own the towers," Corrigan pointed out, as Kenly downed the last of his brandy.

"Yes, but if Thompson is dead, they will break apart. It's like a serpent that has been decapitated...without its head..."

Kenly felt something was wrong; immediately after finishing off the alcohol, he felt something strange in both his stomach and throat. It was strongest in his throat, where a sudden heat was followed by a constrictive feeling. He stood still for a moment, trying to grasp the situation, his hand instinctively reaching for his throat.

"Corrigan...Corr...I just swallowed wrong, that's...all..."

Kenly could see concern on his general's face, but also something else. Something deeper inside. Corrigan made a move, but not to help; he just stood up straighter, moved closer.

"You alright, my lord?"

"I...swallowed wrong, is all..."

That was certainly not what was wrong. Kenly could feel the tightness in his throat getting tighter, stronger, and suddenly he dropped the stoneware mug, and collapsed to his knees, his hands now scrabbling uncontrollably for his throat.

"Baric...I...help...can't..."

"I'm sorry, my lord, I cannot understand you," Corrigan said, suddenly sad. He stood over Kenly as the latter writhed on the ground, his eyes beginning to turn and his face losing its color, becoming a light purple.

"The...brandy...can't...bre-"

"Oh...the brandy? Yes, of course. I almost forgot."

Corrigan smiled, and grabbed the stoneware mug, which had survived its fall.

"Such a pity. Two great men dying on the same day," he smiled, turning over the mug to examine it. "Yes, it was the brandy."

"What...hell...you talking...about..." Kenly struggled, now spasming uncontrollably.

"You've put too much trust in too many people. Your great fault, in retrospect," Corrigan smiled. Kenly suddenly noticed the purple tinge in his eyes; it was faint, but it was there, as he smiled maliciously and placed the mug at Kenly's feet.

"It was the brandy, yes, or rather what was in it. I'm sorry, old friend, but I serve you no longer."

Those purple eyes taunted Kenly as he died, writhing on the floor in his final moments.

VVVVV

The smell was strong throughout the entire day; the rains had made it worse, having turned the earth into a churning, festering pool perfect for moisture-loving bacteria. The battlefield outside of the Ditch had now turned into a plain of rotting corpses, and their stench wafted into the ravine itself, casting a disgusting odor upon every building and house in the top three levels. It was inescapable; however, one eventually grew accustomed enough to the smell to go about their daily business without feeling nauseous.

Matt had never felt so exhausted, so utterly sapped of energy; the battle had left him more damaged than he had expected. He found himself lackluster, wanting for energy and motivation, and realized that that was the state of everybody in the Ditch. Even Darius, the ever-energetic Captain of the Guard, had canceled training sessions and allowed the men to rest easy for the day, allow them to rejuvenate themselves and sleep as much as they could.

Matt was hoping that he could sleep in, but he would have no luck; the sun had just barely risen before a messenger from Darius rapped on the door of his chambers. Being a light sleeper, Matt was the only one awoken by the soft knock; he rose groggily, his shoulders slumped and his eyes half open, his body covered in a light layer of sweat. The messenger handed him a small letter before quickly departing, leaving Matt to close the door gently so as to not wake up his roommates.

It was a summons from Darius, to meet him in the central square of the underground barracks; as much as he detested being summoned so early, it was Matt's duty to attend his liege, and he begrudgingly dressed and left the warm comfort of his room to the main hall, where he had to put on his own armor and try to look halfway decent. Once armored and readied, he took up his duties and prepared his liege for whatever business he had today.

"Lord Walker is parlaying with Lord Antar today, and has requested my presence," Darius answered when asked.

"Parlaying with him?"

"Yes, he's having a meeting," Darius said, sounding rather irritable. "I suppose you haven't heard the latest news?"

"No," Matt replied curtly, strapping Darius' gauntlets on firmly.

"Kleiner pulled away in the night with what men he had left. Instead of pursuing him, Antar has now besieged _us_," Darius said.

"Coward," Matt grumbled, fussing with the gauntlets' straps.

"He suffered a great loss yesterday in battle. I don't blame him for pulling back, now that he is even more outnumbered. Cowardly, yes, but smart."

"We lost a lot yesterday. And we're still standing," Matt pointed out.

"Aye, that we are. No sign of our invaders, though."

"Any idea of who they were?" Matt asked, guessing that Darius did not have the answer.

"No, none at all. Almost all of them were slain, and those we managed to capture aren't talking."

"I would give a lot to figure out who the hell they were. None of Antar's men, probably?" Matt started guessing.

"Could be anybody. Come, we've got another problem to deal with right now. Follow me, and stay silent, this is Lord Walker's job."

Matt did as he was commanded, ensuring that he played the part of the quiet, honest-to-god squire as he followed Darius out of the complex, surrounded by armed and armored men. So much for his day of freedom; hopefully this "parlay" would have good results for both sides.

The Ditch was in some state of disarray after the attack the previous day; funeral services were incessant, the bodies of dead guardsmen and citizens burned in organized pyres, and the corpses of the tribal attackers thrown off of the side of the ravine, cast into the darkness below without a second thought.

Matt had already become accustomed to the smell of death pervading the city; it was stronger up on the surface, as his party passed through the gateway of the fortress and out onto the grassy fields, now turned into a muddy quagmire by rain. Today was promising showers as well; a dark, grey blanket of clouds hung pallidly overhead, threatening to dump cold water on their heads at any given moment.

Leon's party was already waiting at the crest of a hill ahead, their banners still without a wind to blow through them. Many of the men escorting him were visibly exhausted, or bore wounds from yesterday's fighting; even Lord Walker, as proud as he stop atop his mount, looked liked he had gained little sleep the previous night. Nobody was in any shape to fight; yet another battle might be coming their way.

"Ever punctual, Mr. Loyhrs, ever punctual," Leon commented dryly, smiling as Darius' party approached.

"You seem to be in good spirits," Darius said as he approached.

"Relatively. Optimism is the key to success."

"That optimism better get you damn far today, or else we're screwed," Darius muttered as a small group of banners rode over the nearest hillock and began to draw closer.

"I will speak with him. Lord Antar is a warrior, but also a gentleman. He will at least listen," Leon promised. With that, he spurred his horse gently, and he led the party over the hill and down into the small valley between his party and Antar's. The two met in the middle, their respective parties gathering around them. The two men, victorious in their own ways, dismounted their horses and stood four feet apart, their feet on hard cobblestone, surrounded by tufts of grass and small field flowers still moist from the cleansing rains, the ground muddy and squishy and the sky blank as slate.

"Lord Walker."

"Lord Antar. I see you have besieged my city," Leon commented, his face blank. Matt, standing to the side, wondered what was going through the minds of the two men as they talked, oblivious to the armored guards standing all around.

"You pledged to neither side, and therefore you are still my enemy. True, you have not given your allegiance to Connaughtsshire, but you are a foe if you are not my friend," Antar announced.

"That's quite absolute. Can you not make an exception for the Ditch? This is not _our _war," Leon was quick to point out.

"Is it not? You were part of the combat yesterday."

"That was an entirely different matter," Leon argued. "We were invaded by people who were not affiliated with either faction."

"They were not mine. Perhaps they simply stumbled into this conflict and got excited at the mere notion of a melee. Such a shame they were so..._disorganized_," Antar smiled dryly. "It would've taken care of two birds with one stone, had you wiped each other out."

"Let's not deal with possibilities here. We are here to negotiate terms of peace, are we not?" Leon asked, with a hint of irritation.

"I believe I've made myself clear. You hand over the Ditch, I allow you to continue to rule under my hand and your city will be unharmed," Antar spoke.

"As a puppet?"

"A bit harsh, but essentially, yes."

"Why don't you just allow us to live as we always have? We've lived under the name of Kastner, yes, but that's it. We take no sides in this war," Leon said curtly.

"If you are not with us, then you are against us. I believe I already made that perfectly clear," Antar warned, now thoroughly irritated.

"Must we deal in absolutes?"

"We must," Antar said firmly. "I expect you to make a decision by tomorrow. If you do not bend your knee, you will be considered my enemy."

"So be it, then," Leon said, as he remounted his horse. The two parties parted without another word, drawing back from each other and eventually disappearing from the meeting spot in the middle of the valley.

One the way back to the Ditch, Leon called Darius forward, and Matt was obliged to follow his liege. He walked by the two men as they rode, listening as they spoke.

"Darius, I'm not going to fight him."

"You're going to surrender, then?"

"Look at our situation. There's no other choice, we're in no shape to fight Antar," Leon pointed out. His logic was sound, there was no denying that; Matt wasn't sure if he agreed with his lord's decision, but he was supposed to stay silent, and he did so, walking alongside the two men.

"I agree, my lord, but your people won't be happy. Many of my guardsmen are eager to fight him," Darius said.

"They're hot-blooded fools. The time to fight will come one day, but not this one."

"You sound like you have a plan..."

"I do, Darius. Speak with me after we get back, come to the Main Hall," Leon told him. "You too, Matt," he ordered, to Matt's surprise.

"M-me, my lord? You want me?"

"Come with Darius to the main hall. I'd like to speak to the both of you."

After all matters had been settled, and the horses stabled, Matt followed Darius, who was following Leon, into the city. The upper levels had sustained quite a bit of damage during the fighting; several houses were burned out, their stones charred by fire, and many people were still moving things into their homes or out. The Main Hall on the Third Level was untouched by the fighting; guards had thrown their lives away to defend it, and their sacrifices had paid off. Leon led the two men back into the Quarters and led them to the conference room.

"Please, sit."

The two sat down on opposite ends of the table, and Leon took a seat at the head, bringing his palm to his forehead and wiping sweat away.

"We have one day. There is too much to do, in one damn day," Leon muttered, wiping sweat away.

"You have a plan, then?" Darius asked.

"I do. You know Antar can't take control of the pendant. It cannot stay at the Ditch any longer, you know that. You both do."

"What if we hide it?" Darius posited.

"Can't hide it well enough. Antar will find it, for sure. I don't want to take that risk."

"What do you plan to do with it, then?"

"I've had Archlibrarian Higgins do some research on it. He's been on that for several days now, and he recently mentioned that he had something for me. A way to get into the pendant."

"Get...into it?" Darius sounded confused.

"To read the writing inside. It's been his goal ever since we first found those scribbles, and he thinks he's found a way. I'll send for him."

Leon spoke briefly with one of the guards, and the man ran out of the room, his armor clanking as he ran, growing fainter with each passing second.

"Antar will search the Vault, for sure. He'll find the firearms, but that's alright, so long as he doesn't find the Pendant," Leon stated.

"There's a lot more down there than that damn necklace," Darius scoffed.

"Yes, but we can afford to lose most of it. We've got to get that pendant out of here," Leon said. "It is our utmost concern."

"Besides surrendering the entire fortress and it's garrison."

"Don't be bitter about it, Darius. I've made my choice, and you know that it's the right one," Leon said grimly.

"Yes, I know it's the best course of action, but it doesn't sit well with me nevertheless. What do you plan to do after we surrender?"

"There will come a day when we rise up again. I do not know when and I do not know if I'll be alive then, but Antar will not stand forever," Leon said. "Find Rykar and that Crosshatch mercenary," he ordered. Darius begrudgingly rose and went to find the two men. Just as he came back, the other guard arrived with Archlibrarian Higgins, who was looking a bit frazzled and carried with him a large dossier full of scrolls and papyrus scripts.

"You c-called for me, m-my lord?" Higgins spoke, his voice shaky. His eyes were bloodshot and vague, as if he had stayed up the entire night; Matt presumed that he had done so.

"Your research, Archlibrarian," Leon said, quick to the point.

"Ah...yes, the pendant. I h-have found something that might, might be useful to u-us," Higgins stuttered, throwing his papers down. He leafed through them furiously as Rykar and Royce took their seats at the table, a bit bemused at their sudden summons. After a few seconds of searching, he pulled out several leaves of paper that appeared to have been taken from a very old book, torn out forcefully.

"Here it is. Iceport."

"Iceport?" Royce was the first to ask, wondering why the hell he had been hauled to this meeting.

"A v-very old city, l-lost to time," Higgins explained. "Very c-cold, too, hence the name-"

"Thousands of years old. Much of the city is preserved in snow and ice that has accumulated over the centuries," Leon explained for himself, somewhat familiar with the history. "Archlibrarian Higgins has found something there that might be helpful for us."

"Yes, for the pendant..."

"Do we still have that goddamn pendant?" Royce complained, holding his head in his hand. "It's caused so much trouble-"

"And it will cause far more if we don't dispose of it. Not throw it away, take care of it," Leon was quick to correct himself.

"The s-smithy at Iceport has a f-forge that, that uses cold f-flame, one of the most powerful energy s-sources ever known to man, to man. It can only be e-extinguished m-manually," Higgins stuttered, sounding half-conscious. "S-so the flame is still, still b-burning. That f-forge can assemble or, or disassemble a-anything you w-wish."

"And how is that relevant?" Matt asked, speaking for the first time.

"I'm not finished," Higgins replied curtly. "The t-tools that it creates do, do the s-same thing. A -hammer created at, at the f-forge can assemble or d-disassemble anything, and, and it is the only k-kind of tool that c-can crack an e-ender pearl."

"And the pendant is an ender pearl. We've figured _that _much out," Leon said.

Matt was unfamiliar with the term, but the pendant certainly looked like a pearl, albeit translucent. He sat back, bemused, and listen to the adults discuss the forge.

"Sounds like bullshit to me," Royce muttered, leaning back lazily in his chair. "Magic, shit for childrens' stories."

"It's very real, Royce," Rykar was quick to point out. "I've heard of it before, as a legend, but I've seen it in historical records as well. And I think I've read more than you have," Rykar smirked.

"It is real. There are a lot of written records referencing it, but not much that actually _describes _the forge. Or where it is in the city," Leon said.

"A hammer c-constructed in the cold f-flame will c-crack an, an ender pearl. It is the only, only t-tool that can d-do so without d-destroying the, the pearl," Higgins explained.

"Aye. We don't want to break it," Leon said.

"Are there any hammers that still exist? Can we find one somewhere else?" Darius asked.

"It would be a wild goose chase. Even if there _are _still ones out there, you'd be hard-pressed to find one."

"Those numbers could be incredibly important. The pendant itself is a relic of power, that is why I have pledged myself to protect it," Rykar stated. "If it falls into the wrong hands-"

"Is your oath still valid, Bergensten?"

"I'm sworn to protect it my entire life. It is still valid, yes."

"Then will you undertake this journey?" Leon asked.

"Are you asking me to take the pendant to Iceport?" Bergensten guessed, almost lazily.

"Will you do it? Take it to the forge, crack it-"

"What if there's not a hammer?" Matt was quick to point out. "Er...well, didn't you say a hammer was needed? I don't know, but-"

"The boy raises a good point. A cold forged hammer or saw is needed to crack or cut that pearl open. None of us have the skill to forge anything like it," Bergensten said.

"Are we just going to assume that there's such an item already there, then?" Darius wondered.

"We can."

"That's a hell of a stretch," Matt pointed out, realizing that this desperate ploy was crazy, and at the same time logical.

"We just need to get the Pendant _away_," Leon grumbled, slightly annoyed. "I plan to surrender to Antar tomorrow, and I need the Pendant out by nightfall. Along with a few other things."

"You're going to give up the Ditch!?" Royce asked incredulously, and Bergensten did not look the least bit happy, although he remained silent.

"There is no other choice. We cannot fight, our predicament is too tight."

"We're outnumbered," Darius reminded him. "By a vast margin. And Kleiner has withdrawn, leaving us."

"So long as we step down peacefully, we will survive. And that Pendant needs to go _tonight_," Leon said.

"Tonight? You could've given us some warning!" Rykar uttered, visibly angry. "Leon...this is madness. Everything's happening so quickly, what do you expect us to do!?"

"I expect you to stand to your oath," Leon said calmly. "You know what will happen if that Pendant falls into the hands of a power-hungry marauder like Stanislaus Antar. It needs to go somewhere, _anywhere_, and we need to find out what's inside. Rykar, as guardian of the necklace, you must protect it, and you must protect Matt."

"Wait...why me?" Matt asked suddenly, realizing that he was being included in this sudden departure. "Do you mean I have to go with him?"

"The responsibility of the pendant is shouldered on you as well," Rykar explained. "You hold it with me, although you are not directly responsible for its safety."

Higgins chose that moment to chime into the conversation, having been silent for quite a while.

"The, the p-pendant becomes part of, of the o-one who wears it, until that u-user dies. R-records speak of it w-working like that."

"That sounds like some sort of shitty curse," Royce muttered, sounding bored.

"It's the way that the pearl works. The Pendant has become a kind of legend over the centuries, but it's definitely an old relic of great power-"

"Which is why my family has gone to such lengths to protect it."

"Rykar's devoted his life to the pendant," Leon said. "He knows more about it than anyone else."

"I will take the pendant to Iceport-"

"And Matt with you," Leon reminded him.

"Don't I have a say in this matter?" Matt asked, but he was almost completely ignored. Leon simply brushed him off by saying "The pendant has already spoken for you. You're going with Rykar, there's no choice."

Matt wanted to argue with him, but really, what was there he could say? He knew the pendant all too well, the way that it called to him, enticed him to wear it; he had some sort of bond with it, however evil or cursed that damned necklace might be. He consented to sit back and let the adults decide his fate, feeling rather powerless at the moment. After all, they were the ones in charge; what he could do but go along with them?

"It's Rykar and Matt, they're certainly not going to be able to fend for themselves, just the two of them," Darius pointed out. "No offense, gentlemen."

"The wilderness has become more dangerous over the years. The law matters less and less each passing week, I don't think two men can survive such a long journey," Rykar said, supporting Darius. Naturally, he turned to Royce. "Crosshatch?"

"The hell if I know whether I want to or not. Depends on whether my employers are still paying me," Royce chuckled.

"We'd be mighty pleased to have you with us."

"Well, I can go with you until we reach New Connaught, that much I can promise. If I go further...well, that depends," Royce decided.

"Depends on what?"

He did not answer, and after a few seconds of silence, Leon picked up once more.

"Royce, Rykar, Matt. You will take the Pendant to Iceport. I do not know when you will come back, if you come back at all, but we need to get that necklace out of the Ditch."

"Hell, I'll come with you two. If anything, it'll get me back home," Royce said.

"A fourth person would be welcome, but I don't know if anybody is willing. Is anyone?" Leon asked. Nobody else answered; both Leon and Darius had their duties to the Ditch, and therefore could not venture forth from it.

"Then it will be you three. You leave tomorrow, before I parlay with Lord Antar. Archlibrarian?"

"Erm...ah-yes?" Higgins stuttered, suddenly awake. He had been dozing off, his head cradled in his flabby, pasty arms.

"At dawn, you give the three objects to these men. Have them ready."

"The pendant? And-"

"The other two. Easy for them to carry," Leon said, avoiding any mention of the other two objects. Matt was still trying to decide whether or not to take a stand for himself when Higgins left and Leon stood up, as if adjourning the impromptu committee.

"You gentlemen will leave at dawn. Godspeed to you."

Matt was still disgruntled, and was the last to stand up, trying to find the will to speak to Leon about how he felt. Luckily, as he was leaving, Leon caught him.

"Matt."

"Hmm?"

"I can tell you don't approve of this," Leon stated dryly, as if he had known all along.

"I...no, not really-"

"Why is that? You realize how important this is, don't you?"

"It feels like I just got here," Matt admitted. "And...now I'm being sent back out again. I want a _home_ L...Lord Walker," Matt struggled. "Some place I can settle down in, not just another waypoint on some nonterminal journey. Ever since I've come here, I've been bouncing back and forth between places, and...I _want _a place to call _home_."

There was a moment of silence.

"I know what you mean, Matt," Leon sighed, his shoulders sagging marginally. "There was a time when I was in a predicament similar to yours. My home was swept away, and for a long time I had nowhere else to call...well, home," Leon laughed nervously. "That was a long time ago, but the memories remain."

"Then why are you forcing me out like this?"

"For the same reason that I didn't just give up and drop dead a long time ago: because _someone _out there is depending on you. Who might that someone be? That's something to think about," Leon answered.

"That's kind of a far stretch..."

"You're sacrificing something for someone you love. I've been in the same position, Matt, so I understand completely, and it's hard to send you out on a journey like this. But find somebody you love, and tell yourself that this will make their life _better_. I promise, you'll be making their life better."

For an instant, Matt's mind flew to Sora, and his heart fluttered with a sudden surge of ecstatic emotion before he realized that she was gone.

_Gone somewhere. How can I make her life better if I don't even fucking know where she is!?_

"You won't be alone on this. You can trust Rykar."

"It's not a matter of trust-" Matt began, but cut himself off. There was no point in going down that road; Rykar and Royce were both trustworthy men, who had come through for him before.

"I know what bothers you. But think about what I said. It will help," Leon said, and then dismissed Matt.

VVVVV

Matt tried to keep his departure a secret; he returned to the barracks quiet and solemn, only speaking when he was spoken to. He avoided trouble until late at night, when he was attempting to pack a few things subtly in a knapsack. Despite his unassuming nature, when everyone else was busy Kellan approached him.

"Going somewhere?"

"No...just, organizing things, that's all," Matt lied quickly. He had been packing some food and medical supplies for the journey, which he had received from the base quartermaster on the orders of Darius.

"I've never seen you do that before. Tell me what's up," Kellan asked firmly.

"Just organizing, nothing to worry about-"

"That's a lie. Where are you going?"

Matt really couldn't tell Kellan _where _he was going, but he knew that he couldn't put off the truth any longer.

"I'm...departing. Just _somewhere_."

"So you're deserting us?" Kellan interrogated him aggressively. "Leaving your duty?"

"No, I've been told to do this...told to go, go and leave-"

"Where, then? And why? Why can't you just _tell _me?" Kellan asked, exasperated.

"It's business of Lord Walker, given to me by the Captain. I can't tell you anything more, I'm sorry, I've already said too much," Matt sighed, shouldering his knapsack.

"Would you allow me to come with you?"

"Why?"

"Not much for me here," Kellan admitted. "That's why I want to go. I'm tired of the Ditch, I've seen enough of it, and I don't want to live under the banner of another lord."

"You'd be abandoning your post, though, wouldn't you? Didn't you just get onto me for that?" Matt raised his eyebrow.

"Well, I wasn't calling you out or nothing..." Kellan trailed off sheepishly. Matt sighed again, deeply, and made for the door.

"I'm sorry, man. Lord Walker's business, and I can't deny him that. I want to stay...but I can't."

Matt knew deep in his heart that he wanted to stay in the Ditch, even after what Leon said; but he had to make this sacrifice, for who knows what results.

"I understand. Are you...going now?" Kellan asked.

"No."

The answer was succinct and concise.

Kellan did not pursue the topic any further for the rest of the day; rather, he was somber and quiet, even at meals. Neither he nor Matt talked much; ironically, the reasons were very different. Matt did _not _want to leave the Ditch; on the other hand, Kellan _did_. Matt would've given anything to trade places with him-well, almost anything-to switch places. But the burden had been shouldered upon him, and like Leon said, he must sacrifice something to make the world a better place. Tough words to chew over, and about halfway through supper Matt felt ill and had to excuse himself for bed.

All that night, he lay awake in bed, wondering if he had made the right decision in coming here. All of his hopes and dreams of finding a better life in the magical world of the game had fallen apart; where once he had suffered abusive parents and neglectful teachers, he now faced total war and dark magic, and a proper home still evaded him. That was all he really wanted now; a place to call home.

_And a girl to share it with_.

Lying in bed, tossing and turning, alone, Matt realized that somewhere his love for Sora had gone off track. It had been weeks since he had last seen her; it was entirely possible that she had died and just decided to leave the simulation entirely.

What if she had gone back to the real world? What if she had simply assumed that her best friend had died, and had given up on him? Perhaps Sora was back in Seattle, laughing and joking with her classmates, walking the tiled halls of highschool with her best friends, whispering in hushed voices about cute boys and mean teachers and feeling the despised pangs of love.

Matt contented himself to wallow in his angst for the night, his last night in the Ditch before heading to Iceport. In the morning, the city would be surrendered to Antar's forces; his home would be forfeit to a man who seemed intent on conquering the entire simulation for his own purposes.

Something had gone wrong. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

Everyone was mortal now; no more temps, no more perms, none of that. No more woodcutting and mining, no more village life, those happy existences replaced by war and destruction and rampant death.

Something had gone wrong; and now that the pieces had been set up, they were beginning to fall apart.

VVVVV

The morning was warm, almost humidly so. Storms were brewing again; Matt could feel it in the air, feel the moisture in the atmosphere. For the first time that he could remember, he was walking the deserted streets of the Ditch alone, without anyone to guide him or anybody walking near him. A few guards were posted at intervals, but they took no notice of Matt.

Down at the Vault, Royce and Rykar were already waiting, speaking with the Archlibrarian. They noticed Matt's arrival, but did little about it; HIggins threw open to the door to the Vault and allowed them all to enter.

They didn't have far to go; the three items that they had to bring with them were ready at the front desk, borne by a scribe.

"This is what Lord Walker commanded us to hand to you. Of course, there's the pendant..."

Higgins produced the pendant from a case and handed it to Matt, who gingerly accepted the dangerous and precious trinket. He slung it around his neck, tucking the actual pearl under the folds of his light chain armor.

"Yes, and then we have this...might come in handy later on."

He produced from a knapsack a bottle of what appeared to be generic pills.

"They're powerful modern antibiotics, better than any sort of remedy you can find," Higgins explained. "In case...well, the need arises."

"Is this the last that we have?" Rykar asked with concern.

"We're disposing of the rest. It cannot fall into the wrong hands," Higgins said morosely. "So much good put to such waste..."

"And what is the last thing, then?"

Higgins reached under the desk and pulled out a case containing a shiny chrome revolver, which glinted in the light thrown onto it by nearby torches.

"All of our other weapons will be disposed of. This is the last one."

"It's...a gun?" Royce asked, curious.

"A revolver, an older style of handgun, but modernized in terms of working parts and incredibly deadly. And relatively easy to conceal under a cloak or armor," Higgins hinted. "This piece is in your hands now."

"If the Regulators find that-"

"They've got more concerns than tracking down a single gun, I reckon," Rykar silenced Matt quickly. "This might really be useful."

"Indeed. It would give you a true advantage," Higgins said dryly. "Well, if you come across anything..."

"Is that everything?"

"Yes, it is. Lord Walker wishes you to be off, gentlemen," Higgins hurried them along. "You now command the three most precious objects from our Vault. Take good care of them, and do not lose a single one."

"Well, I wasn't planning on it," Royce grumbled, taking the antibiotics and stowing them away.

The three were ushered from the Vault by Higgins, who quickly shooed them out and began to close the doors behind them.

"We're still dumping things into the ravine. Hurry, get going!" he whispered fiercely as the heavy doors shut.

It was a lonely trot back up; Royce kept a fast pace, forcing Rykar and Matt to keep up with him through the desolate streets. Not a soul was seen on the way up except for a few guardsmen; a man was peddling small, withered limes on the first level main plaza, but nobody was around to buy them, and he went ignored.

The stable hands had already loaded up a wagon full of supplies; it was not a very big wagon, more of a glorified cart, really, but it would fit one person inside plus several days' worth of supplies. Upon arrival at the livery, Rykar asked the hands a few questions.

"How much we got loaded up?"

"Ten days' worth of food and other supplies, sir-"

"Any tool?" Rykar asked.

"A few."

"Weapons?"

"No sir."

"That's good enough. We've got our own weapons," he grunted as he struggled up onto his mount, the one drawing the wagon. "I hope this thing is fast."

"Slower than horse, faster than an actual caravan wagon," the stable hand reported.

"It'll suffice," Matt stepped in, hoping for a cart. It would be nice to avoid over a month of riding on horseback; Iceport was a little more than a month away, and the challenge of reaching that distant waypoint on horseback was daunting.

"Alright, since it's already loaded. Thanks for...everything," Rykar stuttered, as Royce mounted a slender destrier and Matt hopped up into the cart. Rykar led the cart through the narrow lanes of the livery, out of the gatehouse and through the gate, into the outside world.

Passing through the meadows stained with blood, past the corpses of thousands of brave men, they rode on, as the sun began to shine across the world and illuminate the dead once more.

VVVVV

It would be hours before the machine was fixed, according to the technicians. They were skilled men, Mojang's own tech team, and yet they said they had to restart several key pieces of equipment and ensure that everything was properly wired before even attempting to fix the damage.

Carl Manneh sat back in his chair and wiped sweat from his brow, wondering how many weeks would pass within the sim before regular operations were restored.

_Nobody goes in, nobody goes out. And there's no such thing as respawning anymore_.

Fate would take its course now; Carl could only hope that its path would not be a cruel one.


	22. A Land Cloaked in Shadow

**Hello internet! For all of you Americans out there, happy Independence Day! And for all of you British out there, happy Failure Day!**

**Of course I kid. I'm a loyal colonist, always supporting the crown and buying tea like a good citizen. I CAN STILL BELIEVE THAT WE'RE BRITISH.**

**Anyway. Review answers, anybody? On a different note, I just realized that I don't have very much to say in these author's notes. They just seem a bit useless, other than answers, of course.**

**REVIEW ANSWERS:**

**Foundry Cove (both of your reviews): That bat...he's not gone yet :D And I wrote Chapter 22 **_**before **_**I made that declaration. I might mention Carl again, but...I dunno. Since he's already written it, it would be hard to go on without him, so I'll either erase him completely or make only minimal usage of him.**

**HPE24: Death and defeat everywhere. Antar's not a nice guy, but he's better than you think :P And Leon's going to be alright for now...you'll just have to wait and see!**

**Woohooman14: The Enderborn are...well, creepy guys. They have an agenda, most definitely. But I can't reveal it yet!**

**Bfheadgamer: YOU DESERVE AN ANSWER LIST...**

**Here we go:**

**1) NEVER. HE WILL NEVER FIND HER. *evil laugh***

**2) Well...they'll probably die. Poor fools.**

**3) Leon will get back to you on that. After his afternoon tea.**

**4) Bob...I'm sorry, man. I don't know how to say this. Bob's in a better place now. Hobo heaven.**

**5) Who needs cookies when you've got a GUN!?**

**6) I shall not reveal more about the Enderborn yet. But they have evil plans, I'll tell you that!**

**VVVVV**

The time was right. Time to strike.

The land of Connaughtsshire, and soon lands beyond it, would become cloaked in shadow. Soon. None of his doing, of course, but a happy coincidence all the same.

The consciousness of something far more powerful than mere mortality swirled around inside of the glowing diamond, feeling..._bored_, almost.

Time passed, events happened, and yet still it sat there, waiting for something. No, not an escape from the diamond-there would be no leaving the jagged prison within which he was entrapped. No, but there would be other things to accomplish.

But now it played the waiting game. Wait for the cloak of shadow to fall, wait for the ash to rain, and then begin the real game.

VVVVV

The ash was everywhere; clothes, hair, water, food, blanket rolls. Even the nobility could not escape it; Lord Brennan could not, and the city councillors of Crestan could not either. It fell like a gentle rain of dust, dropping from the soot-choked heavens above, where the great cloak of darkness spread.

The massive cloud of ash loomed up ahead, masking the sun and obscuring any hint of blue sky above. It was not grey, or even a very dark grey, but pitch black, choked with thick ash and pumice belched forth from the mighty volcano, with still erupted with an unholy fury. Each day it rumbled menacingly, continuing to issue forth its wretchedly poisonous blanket of sulfurous fumes that cloaked the rolling meadows and deep forests in shadow, and rained ash daily. On occasion, another violent blast would rock the mountain and pepper the ruins of New Connaught with jagged rocks and great boulders, which would smash into the burned shells of buildings and do even more damage.

The pyroclastic flow that had accompanied the initial eruption had wiped out much of the metropolis: wooden buildings had simply been swept away or incinerated in the heat of the boiling torrent of gas and flame, and stone buildings had been battered and charred, their interiors swept by the deadly fire. The stone walls still stood, baked by heat but unbowed, and despite much of the residential areas being completely destroyed the city was still distinguishable from its surroundings, which were now covered in a light layer of ash that had choked every droplet of green from the once-inspiring palette of the meadow.

Kleiner had finally arrived at camp; his party was a sad one, a dispirited, melancholy stream of broken and injured soldiers interspersed with a few men who still stood tall. Many of the men from Crestan had died; there were few of their plumed pikemen in Kleiner's column, and even fewer of their decorated captains. And all for naught.

As the mountain gurgled maliciously in the distance, Brennan sat upon his horse, whose tail continuously flicked ash from the air, and watched the vanguard of Kleiner's army enter the camp. At its head was its leader and lord, still proud despite his stinging loss, and he rode into camp with his head held high. As soon as he saw Brennan, he approached, deciding not to dismount as he rode up.

"Kastner is dead," was his first proclamation upon arrival.

"Can you be sure?" Brennan asked, almost casually, as his horse danced nervously, kicking up a thin cloud of soot.

"He would not have survived that. He is slain."

A moment of silence passed between the two men; solemn, bitter.

"This is a victory for you. You can claim power as king now," Brennan spoke.

"Now?"

"What better time to do so then now?" Brennan argued. "The nation is in disarray, invaders have entered our borders, we have a crisis...the people _need _a leader. You have a victory here, with Kastner dead-"

"That was no _victory_," Kleiner hissed fiercely. "Do not think that political success equals a victory. We have lost, and now we are certain to lose again. Let us seek some shelter, I can't stand this bloody fucking ash."

Brennan led Kleiner back to the command tent, which was relatively free of the clinging soot. Their mounts were handed to liveries, and the men proceeded inside, the only ones in the tent.

"That was no goddamn victory! What are you thinking!?" Kleiner reproached him severely as soon as the tent flaps closed.

"It will benefit you in the long run-"

"Yes, Kastner died! And he took six thousand of his own men to the grave with him! Do you realize how much that stunts us!? We lost more than twenty thousand soldiers on that field, Thomas!"

"My lord Kleiner, you've lost sight of your original goal," Brennan warned.

"Aye, the crown, the kingship, control of the province, all of that. What does it matter now?"

"It matters everything," Brennan argued. "Now more than ever!"

"Does it now?"

"You planned to have Kastner die, that was the stratagem! Let him die on the battlefield, portray him as a hero, and take over in his stead!" Brennan reminded him sternly. "Do you not remember?"

"I remember concocting a failure, if that's what you mean."

"It has not failed yet," Brennan said hopefully. "You have good men who are still willing to fight. The council of Crestan is still willing to fight."

"But the question is, am I?" Kleiner proposed rhetorically.

"You've suffered a great defeat, yes, and a disheartening one at that. But with spirits so low, and the odds so aligned against you, this is your chance to prove yourself!"

"Thomas, your optimism has always been a welcome sight, but no longer does it affect me so," Kleiner sighed, opening up a flask of brandy and drinking deeply from it, savoring the warmth. "I've realized the gravity of what I have done."

"What you have done, my lord?"

"I destroyed the best chance we had at victory."

"Kleiner?" Brennan guessed.

"Elias was aged, and foolish, and heroic, yes, but he knew how to lead an army. And I led him to death's door," Kleiner mused. "The fool became me."

"Do not dwell on the past. What happened happened, there is no way we can fix that."

"It should've never happened in the first place," Kleiner struggled. "We were so short-sighted...I thought this would be a glorious road..."

"And perhaps it will be. Kastner is only recently dead, just as we planned. He cannot become king, so what's stopping you?" Brennan proposed.

"Quite a few obstacles are."

"Overcome them," Brennan said matter-of-factly. "Obstacles are a part of life. Overcome them, rise to the position you yearn for. I will support you, as I always have."

"I do not intend to give up just yet. Thank you for your words," Kleiner approved weakly. "What news has come?" he shifted the topic.

"Quite a bit. None of it good."

"Oh?"

"A lot of it is from the Southron. Law and order has almost completely collapsed in some areas," Brennan reported. "We've had bats and couriers coming in with reports of rampant destruction, both brigands and Harvesters."

"What of Lord Cymander? Does he act?" Kleiner inquired, disquieted.

"He does nothing yet. But he may have reason to act soon. That's another piece of news to digest."

"Well, go on and tell me, then."

"Sykardos marches from the south, my lord."

Kleiner found his stomach sinking very quickly. It tightened up into a tiny knot, shriveling with every passing second that his mind gave attention to the name "Sykardos".

"The archon?"

"Archon Sykardos, yes. Forget about him, did we?" Brennan asked impatiently.

"He has not been on my thoughts, I daresay," Kleiner admitted, pausing to rub his chin in a puzzled manner.

_Why Sykardos? Why now? He's been forgotten for thirty or more years...is he even still alive?_

"Then perhaps he has chosen the best time to invade. Nobody remembers him, he's been out of our field of vision for decades," Brennan reminded him.

Archon Sykardos was leader of a distant civilization, one that inhabited a warmer, more tropical continent farther south than the Moon's Eye, which was the southernmost location in the known world of _MINECRAFT_. Trading galleys carried back rumors every year of grand cities of marble and massive palaces carved out of mountains, and armies of _hoplons _marching in perfect formation, drilling and preparing for a war that would never seem to come. Until now.

"Does he mean to strike at us, you think?" Kleiner asked inquisitively.

"Reports are that he's gathering his forces for a massive invasion north. He has nobody else to kill, unless there's anybody farther south. Which is entirely likely," Brennan admitted.

"No, I would think he's coming for us. He has the perfect chance to strike while we're disorganized and strung out," Kleiner said. He recognized the tactical intelligence of such a maneuver; strike the enemy while they're unprepared, and send them reeling.

"Should I send a message to Cymander?" Brennan asked, nearly reading Kleiner's thoughts. The latter nodded, already figuring out what he was going to say.

"Send a message, yes. Tell him it's time to declare his loyalties, or he'll have more than one foe marching on him."

VVVVV

Distant though they were, the charcoal-black clouds were more ominous than any thunderstorm could have been. Those were ash clouds; massive pillars of debris and rock and soot reaching high into the sky, like the chunky fingers of some great mountainous giant, slowly spreading across the sky.

Matt had been monitoring the cloud ever since it came into view, and it had grown rather quickly. Two days ago they had left the Ditch, not even daring to look back; ever since their departure, everything had been going relatively well, despite the sudden disappearance of half of a loaf of bread. The roads, while not completely unoccupied, were lightly traveled, and nobody accosted their party and tried to search them. Most of the travelers were only peasants, farmfolk returning from a town market or traveling from village to village. The farther east they got, though, the more refugees they could see.

Each of them looked the same; dirty, ragged, desperate for some form of safety. They carried what little possessions they could with them, and the few who had been able to procure wagons were lucky. All of them fled from either war or volcanic fire; none of them seemed to have any hope left. Matt wondered how things had turned around so quickly.

They received quite a bit of news when they stopped in a small roadside town about two hundred miles from the Ditch. Having spoken to several locals in the forum, Rykar gleaned that the volcano had erupted just a few hours after they had departed and had destroyed the entire city of New Connaught in a deadly pyroclastic flow, a superheated cloud of hot gases that had rolled down the side of the mountain and obliterated the capital. Not much else was known; there were rumors of an army of undead and of a great plague and the breakdown of law and order, but the only fact that Matt knew for sure was that the volcano had erupted. Everything else seemed like a wild exaggeration.

They stopped to make camp off the road for that third night, as they usually did; staying in towns would invite more trouble than they wished to have, and they would be safer away from other people. All three of the men were well-armed, and so long as they could avoid large groups of brigands or Harvesters they would be safe, even if random passerby attempted to rob them.

They had no trouble in setting up the camp, finding a lone tree to hitch the horses to and a small creek running nearby from which to get water from. The wagon was drawn up beside a small campfire, and several limbs were hacked from the tree in order to provide fuel and places to sit.

The trouble came when it was time to eat.

"Well, that's another half loaf of goddamn bread. Is anybody stealing more food than they've been rationed?" Rykar asked pointedly as he leapt out of the cart right before suppertime. "Be honest."

The other two men shook their heads quickly, proclaiming their innocence.

"Well, either one of you is lying or we've got a pest problem."

"Could be wild animals, I suppose," Matt suggested, tacking that on to further support his claim.

"Aye, and they're eating from our cart every day? For the past three days?" Rykar was suspicious.

"Could be inside the cart. Squirrel, maybe."

"Well, let's see if your squirrel is up here, eh?" Rykar muttered, leaping back up into the cart and reaching into the pile of food bags. When he touched them, something happened.

_They moved_.

"Well, I'll be damned. Maybe you're right," Rykar chuckled, recoiling slightly as the bags shuffled again. "Little beast getting into our food stores..."

"Don't get bit," Royce joked dryly, as Rykar reached down into the bags once more. He tossed aside one of the bags of grain, and immediately recoiled, falling out of the cart and onto the hard-packed earth as he stumbled out of it in surprise, yelling briefly and sharply.

"Holy hell! What the f-"

"What's wrong?" Royce asked, standing up, alarmed and alert. Matt stood where he was, his hand instinctively going for the sword strapped to his hip, ready to remove the weapon from its scabbard at a moment's notice. Rykar did not appear to be hurt, but he was certainly shocked, struggling to rise to a sitting position.

"Goddammit, that's no animal in there," he declared vehemently, striking the earth as he rose.

"You saw something?"

"Aye, and it saw me. And that wasn't a squirrel," he continued. "Come out of there, you bastard! I know you're hiding!"

For a moment, Matt thought Rykar had gone mad or lost his mind; it was certainly plausible that the tumult of events had driven him over the edge. But to his surprise, the bags of food stored in the back of the cart rustled, and a hand reached out from within the pile, grasping for the empty air above.

"Well I'll be _damned_," Royce chuckled, more amused than disturbed.

"Is there a person in there?" Matt asked, quite unsure whether or not he was seeing the same thing the others were. Even more shockingly, it responded to him by name.  
"Matt?"

"Oh goddamn...Kellan?" Matt wondered, walking over to the cart to get a decent look at it as the bags of food parted to reveal more and more of the figure. When the bags slid away, a distinct human form was visible, dirty and a bit dehydrated, with matted hair and sweaty skin. And it definitely was Kellan.

"Did you...hide under there ever since we left?" Matt asked, feeling like he was asking a question with an obvious answer.

"I snuck in right before you departed, aye. If that's what you're wondering."

"Well, at least you're honest about it," Matt sighed. "So you've been eating our food?"

"And had a bit of water...not enough, but...I'm digging myself a deeper hole here," Kellan realized. "Er...I guess being honest helps."

"You've been stealing our rations," Rykar pointed out darkly, now fully risen.

"What drove you to stowaway in the first place?" Matt asked, sensing that Kellan already knew the gravity of his actions.

"I'm not staying at the Ditch. It might be home, but I'm not going to stand down and bend my knee to some false king," Kellan explained proudly. "And...well, you're going on an adventure-"

"This isn't an adventure, son. Don't think you'll find gold at the end of the rainbow," Rykar seethed.

"I was curious, okay? And I wasn't about to serve under a king of any kind," Kellan said steadfastly.

"So you deserted the guards?" Matt said.

"I...well, yes."

"Two counts of honesty, that's something. At least you gave a plausible reason," Matt admitted.

"I did what I thought was right. Maybe not _the _right thing, but I gave it consideration, and I stand by my decision," Kellan said firmly.

"So...what do you want to do with him, Bergensten?" Royce asked, turning to the ex-castellan.

"I'm thinking, dammit, I'm thinking..."

While Royce and Rykar talked in hushed tones by the firepit, Matt clambered up onto the cart, pushing a bag of grain aside.

"You're crazy-"

"It was a tough choice, okay!" Kellan snapped. "I wasn't going to be stuck back there..."

"Do you have any idea _where _we're going?" Matt asked, almost in disbelief.

"Anywhere's better than there."

"It's freaking Iceport, man. Why'd you want to leave the Ditch for where we're going!? We may not even return!" Matt raised his voice.

"I wanted to get away from home...get out, go somewhere new-"

"Well, you chose a hell of a place to go. You'll be lucky if Rykar doesn't send you packing," Matt scoffed.

"Will you vouch for me?"

"Vouch for you?"

"To allow me to stay," Kellan explained. "Er...with you guys..."

"No, Kellan, I'm sorry...you can't come with us. And I know Rykar will say the same."

"Ah. And I thought you'd be on my side here," Kellan said, sounding measurably disappointed. But he did not pursue the topic, leaving Matt feeling slightly guilty as he sat in the cart in silence.

"I'll be damned if we take him all the way to Iceport. It's not his duty," Rykar finally said, loud enough for all to hear. The two men had been speaking in their hushed tones for several minutes, leaving Matt to weigh his decision in silence. He was afraid that Kellan had been reliant on him, and now he was letting his friend down; such weight brought guilt along with other burdens.

"Your duty lies with the guard, boy," Rykar spoke, approaching slowly.

"I know."

"And yet you abandoned them."

"I know," Kellan repeated.

"Rykar, we can't go back just to haul his ass back to Captain Loyhrs. The city's under a different banner now," Royce argued.

"I thought you wanted the boy gone?" Rykar turned around.

"I do, but think. We'll be just as welcome in the Ditch as we would be in Antar's own camp. There's no hospitality there any longer."

"It's always been home for me, but it doesn't feel like home any longer," Kellan was quick to throw in.

"You're the only one who calls it that," Rykar muttered. "Well, if we don't turn back, what would you have me do, sellsword? Press on?"

"Is turning back reasonable? If not, then we move forward."

"I can second that," Matt chimed in. Rykar did not seem very pleased.

"So you want to go to Iceport with him, then?" he asked again, more pointedly. Matt felt like this was his time to speak up; before Royce could toss in his two cents, Matt interrupted.

"I think...that Kellan might be useful on our way there. I mean, we've got an extra sword now, someone who's been trained, and he's pretty knowledgeable about...stuff."

Matt's argument was weak, but at least he was making a reasonable point. True, Kellan was trained in hand-to-hand combat, although he had received only about two weeks of basic training; but that was better than nothing, and he could be handy in a pinch. Looking back, Matt was relieved, and almost surprised to see Kellan smiling in gratitude.

"Well, we're not taking him back. Looks like we've got another traveler, gentlemen," Rykar finally decided. Matt felt the weight inside of him lift a little, until he realized that this meant another person to take care of, another mouth to feed...

And someone else to hide the pendant from.

VVVVV

With Kellan now onboard, the party traveled closer to Crestan, arriving at a small village by the name of Estelmont.

The town had no more than three hundred people, and reminded Matt of his village, the one that he had called home before it was brutally ransacked. Small things here and there brought back painful memories; as they entered, watched carefully by the green militiamen atop the gate, he attempted to suppress those memories and focus on the present: the need for a warm bed and dry food.

Rykar took care of the first one, having rented a room at a local tavern to spend the night at; they could get a warm meal there, but they needed food for further travel, as they had already consumed half of their supplies. Rykar dispatched Matt and Kellan to wash clothes at the river that bisected the hamlet, which was more of a glorified brook with a rocky, pebbled shore and large boulders jutting out of the water.

"You did a damn stupid thing, Kellan," Matt was quick to remark when they had reached the water's edge, both carrying handfuls of dirty clothing.

"I know it was dumb," the other boy said.

"Then why'd you do it?"

"Do you have to ask me again and again?" Kellan inquired forcefully. "I already told you-"

"Alright, I'm sorry I brought it up again. I just don't think you're aware of what you've stumbled into."

"Maybe not, but that doesn't make me stupid."

"I never said you were...nevermind." Matt dipped a pair of leggings into the water, let them soak for a while, and then withdrew them, letting the cold water drip and dribble back into its stream. When he examined the pants closely, he noticed small bits of grey matter flecked on the fabric.

"There's something on here...ash," he noticed with disgust.

"In the water too?"

"It's getting everywhere. Even the water's taking on a gray tint, you can just barely see it," Matt pointed out, and glanced up at the sky. It was dusk, but the sky was far darker than it should have been; almost pitch black, without a hint of cloud, just the massive black sheet spreading overhead. It slowly grew each day, and became larger and larger the closer they drew to the capital.

The boys quickly finished washing the clothes, becoming considerably bored with the mundane drudgery they were assigned to do. Few people were outside at this hour; many of them had already taken to bed, and those who were out walking did so quickly, holding cloth or fabric over their mouths and noses as a steady rain of ash began to fall from the grim heavens.

"This is going to wreak havoc on the harvests," Kellan muttered grimly as they returned.

"Aye, it will. Not our concern."

"It will be ours soon. Where will we get our food?" he asked.

"That's for a later date. Don't think about such things, you can't change what happens," Matt said.

"There's a war in the Southron," Kellan changed the topic.

"Another thing you can't change," Matt grit his teeth, irritated.

"Renn and Lanos still fighting, Brackwood Keep is under siege," he reported as they crossed the street to the tavern.

"Don't focus on it, Kellan, it's none of your business..." Matt cautioned.

"I dunno. Between them and the Harvester raids-"

"For god's sake, Kellan, that's enough about all that," Matt grunted, flustered.

"I was just making small talk, the news makes good-"

"It's none of your goddamn business! I don't need to hear any more about war or death or famine, I can never get away from it! Stop bringing me the news, I don't care!"

Matt wanted to tack more on to that vicious train of thought, but he did not have the heart to let the rest of his anger out. Ever since leaving the quiet hamlet he had settled in, he had been surrounded by war and fighting and death and destruction-a paradise turned into a devil's playground. Every bit of news that came in from other parts pertained to fighting or disaster or ill news, and he couldn't escape any of it.

"I-I'm sorry, I didn't-"

Matt didn't wait to hear the rest of the apology; he threw the clothes in his arms down upon the front step of the tavern and flung the door open, desperately wanting to seek shelter somewhere.

Rykar and Royce were both drinking at the bar, engaged with their mugs of dark brown ale, and Matt was free to make his way up to the second floor, find their cramped quarters, and shut himself inside.

He had to take a deep breath, even though the room was smoky and smelled of old leather and stale sweat. He had to relax, let his chest heave and contract, try to cobble his thoughts together...

His focus was torn away by something else. Something...inexplicable, at least at the moment. He led himself to the window, trying to fixate his gaze on a distant tree and focus, put his mind at ease and think about how to calm down, how to put sentences together and apologize to Kellan and bring his anger to a halt...

But the thing nagged him more. He found himself turning around, reaching for something in the air, and then his hands found their way to his chest, groped at the fabric, and opened up his shirt. He clutched at the tiny trinket, swaying in suspension between his nipples, and he grasped the pearl, now staring vaguely at the swirly purple hue of the tiny orb. It felt _alive_, almost breathing, caught between his sweaty fingers, like it had a pulsating life of its own, a conscience that was unique to it. The more Matt squeezed, the livelier it felt, as if it were becoming living flesh...

His vision was out of control for a moment: a bright flash of light that seared his corneas, disoriented him and send him hurtling back at the wall, a glimpse of a monster so vast it appeared to be larger than a building, black and winged and cruel in state, purple eyes struggling to see, chained by some unknown force to the terra against which it beat its fearsome wings, struggling. Struggling.

And then the moment was gone, that one ethereal second. The pendant slipped out of Matt's grasp, returned to its pendulum motion above his chest, swinging rapidly as he let go. He fell to the ground, his back raking against a wooden beam as he collapsed, sweating and gasping for breath, struggling to breathe normally. For a few seconds his feet kicked against the floor, pounding pointlessly against the wooden boards, before he settled down and began to breathe normally, savoring air. The pendant became still again, normal; there was no magnetic urge to grab it, no strange pull luring him in.

Before he could rise up, the door to the room slammed open and Rykar, followed by Royce and a rather concerned bartender, dashed into the room. In a split second, Rykar was grabbing Matt by the shoulders, shaking him several times.

"Matt! MATT! Look me in the eye! LOOK AT ME!"

"I-"

"Are you alright!? What the hell were you doing!?"

"I was..."

Matt didn't have a reasonable explanation for what he had been doing. He swallowed twice, feeling ill suddenly.

"You screamed fit for a man being murdered," Royce said.

"I...I did?" Matt asked shakily. Judging by the solemn glances they exchanged, he knew that they were suspicious of him.

"What did you do?"

"I...the pendant-"

"What did you do?" Rykar asked again, oblivious to the bartender behind him, who was unpleasantly surprised at all of this.

"I...it called to me..."

Rykar's face almost blanched; he turned swiftly to Royce and the bartender.

"Out. Both of you. _Now_."

Without hesitating, the other men backed out, and Royce thoughtfully closed the door behind him, sparing one last glance at a rather shaken and ill Matt.

"Matt, what did you do-"

"It was calling to me, I had to answer it!"

"Do _not _do that. I know what that..._thing _does," Rykar grabbed his shoulders tightly.

"Rykar...I feel...sick..."

"Don't listen to whatever calls you to that pendant? Do you understand me!?"

Matt understood perfectly, but he could not answer; slipping free of Rykar's grasp, he leaned over and vomited onto the floor, collapsing onto the wooden boards as he felt his stomach empty out.

"Oh...god..."

"Listen to me, Matt. You can't let it take you over. Do you understand?"

"I...yeah, I understand..."

"Do you?"

"Yes."

Rykar finally stood up, leaving Matt shaking, eyes blinking rapidly on the ground.

"Are you feeling okay?" Rykar asked blandly, seemingly void of empathy.

"Not really, no..."

"I'll have someone come in, clean up, and help you in bed. You could use some rest, such experiences are draining."

Matt did not feel _drained_-he felt woozy and hungry, but not completely exhausted. Nevertheless, he found it difficult to stand up without help, and he had to use the wooden beam of the wall to support himself as he rose. At one point, a servingman came in and scrubbed up the vomit on the floor, doing so very swiftly, but he did not attend to Matt. He had to guide himself to bed and lay down, feeling his head begin to spin as he flopped down into one of the medium-sized beds.

Food was brought up-a loaf of crusty bread, a wedge of cheese and some cold mushroom stew-but Matt did not eat. He was hungry, yes; his stomach protested in vain, but he did not touch the tray of somewhat palatable food at his bedside. His mind was elsewhere, not in his own body, but somewhere else, wondering, wondering, thinking and pondering. He sat in bed, shirtless, sweaty, his hands anxiously scrabbling at his bare chest where the pendant should have been. It took all of his willpower to keep the trinket on the nightstand next to his bed, away from his hands.

It was interesting that Rykar did not seize the pendant and keep it away from Matt if it did so much harm...was there something dictating him from doing so? Was there some unspoken law about the object that prevented Rykar from doing so? Matt wondered until he found himself feeling sick again, and then lay his head down on his pillow, exhausted, listening to two heartbeats.

That of his own, and that of the pendant.


	23. L'Etranger En Terre

**Hello internet! I...I'm running out of interesting greetings, aren't I? **

**And I never have much to say. One of these days I'm going to run a poll or something just so this Author's Note gets used. **

**I won't do review answers for this chapter, sorry. I know I'm getting a bit bad at this, but I already consume enough time writing as is. Sorry!**

**But for now, take your tiny greeting, your next chapter, and have a wonderful day! **

**VVVVV**

The great harbor had been lost to time, forgotten by all but the most hardy sailors, who brought back tales of an opulent city built against a great slab of mountain, with palaces of gold and streets paved with bronze.

These were rumors, of course, legends borne from rumor, but the city of Ais Kleisardathos was indeed one of the most beautiful in the world, hewn from the red rock that made up the mountain and built under the shadow of the great peak. It was a rich city, flourishing from the income that its gem mines made, making a fortune off of the trade routes into the interior, the nations that flourished within the great jungles and mushroom forests of the equatorial regions.

But it was not these great interior nations that Archon Sykardos was focused upon; no, he had his gleaming, beady eyes set upon another prize. One far more ripe for the picking.

The army had been mustering for weeks now, ever since news of a divide between nobles in Connaughtsshire had come to the far south, borne by the fast sailing ships of the Free Cities carrying the goods of the northern continent to the far ports. Archon Sykardos was by no means a warlike man, but he knew a good conquest when he saw one, and the civil war that was tearing Connaughtsshire apart made it the perfect target for an invasion. So his army had been gathered-levies, conscripts, veterans, regulars, men of all color and profession, gathered together into a hoplite army: drilled, well-trained pikemen cobbled together into a professional army.

Each day this army drilled, trained, prepared for war; the galleys had been built, transport boats thrown together in a hurry by thousands upon thousands of shipbuilders. Everyday this commotion carried on outside of the city, filling Ais Kleisardathos with dust and the smell of sweaty men. But this disruption did not reach the royal palace of the Archon; a different world lay within those gilded doors, the ones flanked by bronze-armored guardsmen that admitted one into a literal paradise upon earth.

The Archon's palace was like a garden; rich and ripe with pleasures and luxuries, be it wine, women, or luxurious food. Very few were admitted into this abode; only the richest of merchants, the strongest of warriors, the noblest of noblemen could feast and enjoy the Archon's company, and this company was very few in number.

Sora knew a few of them by name; those who were invited to the feasts often, those who had accomplished much in their field. She saw them, knew something about them, but her attention wasn't for them; her attention was for the Archon. She was for him, that was the rule set in stone.

After all, that was her job. She was a "comfort woman" for the Archon, a girl who was created solely to provide him pleasure. When she had been brought into the palace, she was a mess; her life had taken a drastic turn for the worst ever since the Harvester raid that destroyed the village she had called home. She had only been gone for a single day in the regular world: gone to school, to class, to enjoy the comfort and companionship of her friends. That first day, nobody noticed that Matt had gone; everybody, even the teachers, assumed that he was home sick. Sora knew better, and was expecting to see him again when she returned. But she was wrong.

She returned to fire and destruction, the village's ruins still smoldering and the bodies decomposed or charred. There was no home left for her, and no people to welcome her back. The two weeks following had been two weeks of wandering, searching desperately for a friendly face in a land where law and order were falling apart. Half of the villages that Sora had come across had been burned out or abandoned; the other half were suspicious of her as she was allowed in for food and drink. Every refugee could mean more trouble; many of the guards watched her as she accepted their hospitality, wondering if she was a Harvester or not.

She made a mistake leaving and then coming back; two weeks of wandering had brought her to the distant port of Moon's Eye, which flew the blue banners of Lord Cymander. She took refuge on one of the many merchant triremes docked in the opulent trade port, hoping that she could shelter herself there for a while. And that was her mistake.

When she returned to the server, the ship had left port for another, and she had received a nasty surprise. The illicit slave ship had already been to one port, and had taken itself to the port of Ais Kleisardathos, where slavery was alive and well. It was too late to try and resist; Sora had made the mistake of trusting strangers for food and shelter, and now, in chains and owned by another man, she was powerless to even attempt to escape, now cut off from the village she had once called home. Through several trades, haggles and purchases, Sora found herself in the entourage of the Archon, a few weeks before the invasion was planned.

True, she did live in luxury. All of her needs-food, housing, beauty products, medicine-were attended to by the thousands of lesser staff members who resided in the palace and saw to the whim of every nobleman and woman in residence. But in exchange for her rich lifestyle, she paid the price of being part of that entourage: already, she had been taken six separate times by the Archon, the only man who could do so. The experience had been painfully unforgettable; each time she closed her eyes and pray it would end, but every second that she was in his arms and under his control felt like an eternity of suffering, and when it was mercifully over she was exhausted, sapped of energy and left with little to give her the strength to live on another day.

And now there was no way to leave. The rumors were varied, but every single one went along the same line: something had happened outside of the simulation, and now everybody who was inside was trapped. Nobody could enter, nobody could leave, and anyone who died inside died for good. She had no fear of death, but now she had no way to receive a reprieve from her trauma: she was stuck in this opulent hell of a harem, subjected to the will of the Archon and his desires.

Yet another humid, warm day in the capital was passing, and Sora spent most of it like she normally did: looking out the window of her small private quarters, watching the clouds float by in the azure waters of the heavens, wishing for the freedom that they had. She was confined to the palace grounds: free to roam within the massive labyrinth of red rock, but trapped within its walls and gate.

Days like this were the most lonely of them all, days when Sora wanted to close her eyes and float away with the clouds, and stop existing. It would be better than living another day in her slavery, unable to determine her own will.

But there was one thing to look forward to: the knock at the door that she recognized. Not the call that summoned her to the Archon's service, but the knock that precluded the arrival of one of her only friends in the palace, one of the other women in the Archon's entourage.

"Er...come in?"

Sora turned around quickly, stepping back from the small slit of a window as the door opened to the inside. To her relief, it was one of her friends; within the Archon's harem, she had very few trustworthy allies, but the French girl Marceline was counted among those. Marceline had been one of the few girls who had helped Sora become accustomed to her life of subjugation. She was one of the few girls who had given her any pity.

"Oh...it's you..."

"Who did you think it was, darling?" Marceline inquired pleasantly, strolling in and shutting the door behind her softly.

"One of them..."

"Well, not yet, dear. Not quite yet."

"Not...yet?" Sora swallowed nervously.

"The Archon is throwing quite a..._grande fete_ today, to celebrate the return of Xonos Mallistron," she informed Sora.

"Mallistron...he's back, then?"

"Victorious, and rich with spoils. And such triumph is always cause for celebration, _m'amour_," Marceline said. Sora turned back around to her window, watching the wispy clouds float by and break apart as the winds of the west drove them.

"What does he want from me?" Sora asked, feeling her throat begin to tighten with apprehension.

"Mallistron does not want you."

"No...the Archon."

"Ah, yes. My apologies," Marceline begged her pardon. "Your previous exploits have...well, attracted the Archon's attention. He has realized that your ability to please him is...extraordinary," Marceline paused briefly.

"I never wanted it to be like that," Sora bemoaned.

"You're a natural, whether you want to be like that or not-"

"I don't want to be like that!" Sora lashed out. "It...it only makes things worse!"

"There's nothing I can do to help you. He's turned his attention to you and a few other girls in particular, and has requested you especially for this triumphal celebration," Marceline reported.

"Damn him."

"I sympathize with you, but you cannot refuse him. You must submit," Marceline told her.

"I've always submitted. That's nothing new," Sora whispered, feeling tears come to her eyes. "That's nothing new, no."

"There, there, now, do not weep, _m'amour_," Marceline began to comfort her, pulling her away from the window. "There is no need to weep. Not yet."

"You know how much I hate this," Sora gritted her teeth, letting the other girl comfort her with warm arms.

"We all hate it, _ma cheri_. But this is our existence."

"I _hate _it," Sora gasped, feeling the tears come again, warm and stinging down her cheek. "I want to go home..."

"Now, no tears, darling!" Marceline reprimanded her again. "You are already weeping, now, there is no need to cry!"

"I just want to go home..."

"This is home, for now. There is nothing we can do to change that," Marceline said smartly. "Now, let us not cry. I will speak to you and help you."

"When does the Archon plan to march?" Sora asked, holding back her tears and sniffling quietly.

"I do not know, dear. Soon," Marceline replied, holding the other girl tightly by the window.

"Maybe I can escape when we leave the city," Sora thought.

"I doubt you will be able to. How do you know that he's taking you?" Marceline posited.

"Well...I assume..."

"You probably assume correctly, darling, but you cannot be sure. Do not think so far ahead," Marceline advised.

"There's not much to look forward to now," Sora mused. "What if he hands me over to Mallistron?"

"I doubt he'll do that. The Archon values you, Sora," Marceline said.

"I'm still afraid."

"I don't blame you. The Xonos is a cruel and unforgiving man, and he takes pleasure in the pain of others. Which makes him a great general," Marceline said. "An interesting thought."

Sora enjoyed her comfort in silence for a short while, turning her attention to the clouds outside once more.

"They're so free..."

"Yes, love?"

"The clouds," Sora added hastily. "They...have nowhere to go, yet they can go anywhere. It's so strange, when you think about it."

"Perhaps. I do not think about it," Marceline said pointedly.

"I do every day. It's relaxing."

"Mmhm."

"Do you think I have a future beyond here, Marcy? Beyond all of this...horrible business?" Sora inquired. Marceline smiled gently, and placed her hand to the other girl's cheek, stroking it carefully.

"My dear, you are _l'etranger en terre_. The stranger from Earth. You are a strange person, but you are unique, and you can do anything your heart desires. You have so much potential. Believe me."

VVVVV

Matt's head burned; he could feel the dull warm throbbing in his head, ceaseless, constant. He couldn't get rid of it; it wasn't debilitating in the least bit, but it was an annoyance, and he could not ride properly. Thus, he was consigned to sitting in the wagon with Kellan, who watched the black ash clouds roil overhead, dimming what light could penetrate the heavy blanket.

The city of Crestan rose up before them, sitting on a flat plain of grass and surrounded by a field of tents, all flying two distinct banners.

_Kleiner and Brennan. So this is what remains of their once proud army_, Matt thought to himself as the small party slowly approached the city. The banners of Kastner had all been taken down; not a single one still flew, to honor the untimely death of such a great leader. Traffic on the road was heavy coming out of the city. A steady stream of refugees flowed past the party, large groups of ragged, worn, famished-looking peasants and civilians trudging along the cobblestone pathway, hauling what belongings they could in knapsacks or in crude wagons. A few of them owned pack animals, and some of them had weapons. Many were aged or sick, or were otherwise unable to keep pace with the healthier folk. Each one cast a hopeful glance up at the armored men riding by, as if their salvation had come. It had not.

"Are you feeling alright, Matt?" Royce called back from the front, riding his horse slowly as refugees flowed around them.

"Yeah, I'm okay."

"You sound weak."

"Maybe a..."

Matt trailed off, rubbing his temples in the hopes that it would dispel the throbbing briefly. He felt feverish, felt warmer than normal; he shivered slightly, drawing the heavy wool cloak around him tighter. A light rain of ash fell from the sky, and a chilly wind rustled through the tide of refugees, chilling him even further.

Matt's mind had been elsewhere the past four days, ever since he had first taken up ill. Although there was no proof connecting the two incidents, he believed that his fever was connected somehow to the pendant. Four days ago, he had touched the pendant, and had never felt normal since. He felt disconnected, like he had one foot in another world, a world within his mind, separate from reality. Each day he'd sit in the back of the wagon, delirious, gazing out at the cold gray sky and scrabbling at his chest where the pendant was, tossing the tiny pearl around in his fingers. Each time he touched it he felt a bit more comfortable, a bit warmer, a bit happier, like he was at home-a _good _home. He could withdraw from this warmth, but each day he became more and more reluctant to put the pendant down and return to reality, which was measurably less comfortable and reassuring than the miniature sanctuary that the necklace provided.

And despite the problem it presented, Rykar never said anything about the pendant; he never warned Matt not to touch it, even though Matt knew that Rykar saw him toying with the pearl. It was a curious matter; either Rykar thought it would pose no harm, or he simply didn't care. Both of those seemed unlikely; Rykar was supposed to protect both Matt _and _the pendant, and he would ensure that the safety of both remained uncompromised.

"Should we get something for Matt in Crestan?" Royce asked as they neared the gateway.

"We'll find a healer."

"What about the antibiotics?" Royce reminded him. Rykar was silent for a moment, before turning to face Royce and stating, matter-of-factly, "They got lost."

"Lost? Like...did we leave them behind?" Royce asked, confused.

"I don't know. We don't have them anymore," he answered, and fell silent once more. Matt decided not to speak; he felt weak, and tired, and in no mood to continue. He did wish they had those antibiotics...

The city gates were already open, allowing a constant stream of traffic in and out of Crestan. The main thoroughfare through the city was clogged with refugees and soldiers, most of them heading west. They formed their own little river of grey and brown, all of them flowing west towards what they hoped was a safe sanctuary. Even Matt, in his delirious and feverish state, playing incessantly with the pendant, could see that their flight was folly; to the east the volcano spewed lava and ash into the sky, and to the west Antar continued to seize territory, pressing forward at a steady rate. Where could these hapless people go? North was wild land, south was breaking down into its own war, and here, at the heart of the province, everybody seemed to be gathering at what they perceived to be the last safe place in existence.

The apothecary was relatively easy to find; it was on the main route, and it was crowded with ragtag refugees desperate for medicines or herbs. Many of them were wounded or sick or were dragging the sick with them; Matt tried to avoid looking at those who had been injured as the wagon was pulled up to one of the few available hitching posts and Royce tied the horses up.

"We'll see what we can do, I can't promise anything," Rykar said as he grabbed Matt under the arms and pulled him out of the wagon.

"I can walk, thanks," Matt said irritably.

"You don't need to be walking."

Matt allowed himself to be led up towards the apothecary, as Rykar waited patiently in line, standing behind two burly men in traveling cloaks.

"How long is this going to take?" Matt asked weakly, blinking his eyes rapidly and putting his hand to his forehead. It came away feeling hotter than usual, as more ash began to fall.

"The line's already moving. Don't worry," Rykar reassured him.

However, there wasn't much that the healer could do when he saw to Matt; Rykar gave a short list of the symptoms, but the apothecarist was stumped. He handed Rykar a handful of spring green herbs and told Matt to take them as part of a watery tincture, and that was all they could do. At that time, Matt sorely wished for the antibiotics they had carried illicitly, or at least something to dull the warm throbbing.

"Herbs? What kind?" Royce asked as they returned to the wagon.

"Doesn't matter. Man said they'd work as a tincture," Matt said as he was hoisted back into the wagon, shaking.

"Well, let's hope they do so. Any idea about what he picked up, Rykar?" Royce asked as the former mounted the draught horse.

"No idea. We may never know."

Matt found Rykar's succinct and vague answer strange; it was not like him. He seemed more irritable, less attentive now that they were on the road and farther from the Ditch. This Rykar was a different Rykar, and Matt felt less secure now. He brought the wool blanket around him and huddled close within it, shivering as the wagon took off with a sudden shudder.

They left Crestan not half an hour after arriving inside its walls, one of the few people traveling east. So many were traveling west, a flood of homeless refugees looking for a new place to call home. Matt began to handle the pendant again, hiding his actions inside of the blanket as he lay down upon the wooden bed of the cart and let his mind drift away towards the warm world of the trinket, ignorant of the cold world that he existed within. The ash began to fall even harder as they traveled on, yet he did not notice.

VVVVV

Alex Tanner was bored by monetary affairs; he loved money, he loved gold, but he left the management of it to his treasurer. However, micromanagement still managed to worm its way into his schedule, and the hassle it created disgusted him.

Tanner was a man of physical pleasures; the business of the realm was left to his assistants and chamberlain, while he enjoyed luxuries and the comfort of women. It helped that he was young, fit and attractive; he had found himself in bed with many a nameless woman night after night, and enjoyed every minute of the pleasure that his body and his money brought to him.

But now his finances had caught up to him, and he reclined lazily in his dais as the treasurer rattled off income numbers. So far, everything had been positive; but it was still boring.

"The profit from our diamond mines has actually gone up, despite the falling price of diamonds..."

The treasurer's dry voice droned on, rolling into one ear and out the other. Alex Tanner leaned on his elbow, counting the hundreds of better places he could be at that moment.

"Comparing the income we receive from the lumber industry to the actual production of furniture-"

"Tell me something, please?" Tanner interrupted, idly picking at a small cut on his hand.

"Yes, my lord?" the wheezy treasurer asked, looking up from his sheaf of documents.

"Do we have a positive income this year?"

"Er..."

The treasurer sifted through the papers for several seconds before he finally reached the end.

"Er...yes, my lord. We have a good income-"

"Then we are we going over all of this shit, hmm?" Tanner asked, staring the treasurer in the eye. The old man looked uncomfortable, riffling through papers awkwardly.

"So...that you are aware of the, ahem, situation, my lo-"

"I don't see why I have to be aware of the situation when you are. Do we have a positive income?" Tanner asked again.

"Yes, my lord."

"Then how we get that income is none of my concern. That is why I hired _you_."

"Ah...of course, my lord. I forgot, of course, that it's my job. Sorry to bother you, Lord Tanner," the treasurer apologized blandly, just as a knock came at the throne room's door.

"Go get the door. And show yourself out too," Tanner ordered, finally sitting up in his chair. The treasurer, slightly confused, rolled up his papers, bowed to Tanner hurriedly and, as another knock came at the door, he rushed to it and opened it, admitting the lone figure inside.

"Oh. So it's you," Tanner said, as the aged advisor left and shut the door behind him.

"So it is me," the shadowy, hooded figure said, grinning visibly.

His eyes had always been hidden; he never removed that hood in the public eye, preferring to hide behind it and stay secretive. Despite his secretive nature, Tanner had come to rely on his advice and the news he brought. He seemed to disappear and reappear within seconds, and Tanner had no idea where he received his news. But he brought news and messages with astonishing speed, and Tanner was thankful to have the mysterious man in his service.

"Well, what have you got this time? What news?" Tanner asked, now interested in his visitor.

"Just a letter."

"A letter?"

"Surprised, are we?" the advisor asked, his upper lip lifting slightly in a smirk. He had with him just one letter, indeed; a roll of paper, still rolled up and sealed. Normally he brought a flood of news, especially with the war in the west in full gear.

"Well, I was expecting more..."

"It's from James Kleiner, my lord," the advisor announced.

"Kleiner? Now what the hell does he want?" Tanner asked, taking the letter. "Where is he now?"

"Crestan, my lord. Quite despondent, according to his personnel."

"Defeat will do that to a man," Tanner mused as he opened the message and began to unroll it, scanning the words slowly, deliberately.

"I also wish to impress upon my lord the gravity of the recent...volcanic activity-"

"It's not my problem yet. Tell me when it is," Tanner interrupted him.

"Of course."

Tanner read the entire letter, scanning it carefully, before slowly lowering it, his mouth half agape and his eyes widening.

"War?"

"Is it?" the advisor asked, sounding just as surprised.

"He's declaring war on me?"

"I was not knowledgeable about the content of the message, my lord."

"He's written it out here in ink, plain and clear," Tanner said again, re-reading it swiftly. "He's...he's declaring war on me," he stuttered.

"That is disturbing news, my lord."

"Quite obviously," Tanner stressed. "He says that I have become a...a t-threat to the realm, and t-that for the safety of our n-nation I must be subjugated b-before I have a chance to c-cause injury to the realm," he read from the letter.

"That is a grievous insult, my Lord..."

"It goes beyond an insult. He's warring against me!" Tanner exclaimed worriedly. "W-what am I supposed to do!?"

"Are you asking me, my Lord? I have no experience with combat or war, sir," the advisor backed down.

Tanner hopped down from his dais, still holding onto the missive and beginning to pace around the wooden chair.

"I don't know what to do, I've never been in this situation before," Tanner fretted. "What would you suggest?"

"I have no suggestions-"

"You're my _advisor_!" Tanner roared. "You have to help me! What do you suggest I do!?"

The advisor was at a loss for words; he bowed his head even further, leaving Tanner to throw his arms up in the air and begin to pace once more. After a few moments, the young lord stopped in his tracks.

"I know. I'll...I'll move against him," he mused quietly.

"My lord?"

"I'll make the first move. If it's a war he wants, it's a war he'll get," Tanner puzzled out, starting to smile. "Yes, yes...make the first move, march against him..."

"Are you sure that's wise, my lord?" the advisor questioned.

"Do you have a better idea? No, you don't!" Tanner accused. "This is what we'll do, we'll march against Kleiner. I will take my army to New Connaught, all thirty thousand, and attack him. Defend my lands!"

"Of course, my lord. As you see fit," the advisor bowed deeply.

"I'll damn well do what I see fit. Thank you for bringing me this letter. Bring my generals together, you are excused," Tanner ordered, and the advisor bowed once more out of respect.

He closed the door behind him, backing out of the throne room and leaving Tanner to his private business.

The plan could not have worked better; Tanner, the fledgling buffoon, had fallen for every step of the deceit. The entire letter had been forged perfectly; he had been working on his skills at forgery for weeks now, seeing and studying Kleiner's handwriting and replicating it. There was no war; at least, not from Kleiner's side.

He had forged the entire missive, and now Tanner would go to war with Kleiner. Events could not have come to pass better. And even better, Tanner had no idea that he had been deceived as such. As far as Alex Tanner knew, James Kleiner was his enemy now, having declared official war on him; the letter had come with his seal, and his signature, and to all but the most discerning eye it was completely authentic.

_Add to the chaos_, he thought to himself as he passed soldiers and hangers-on and palace attendants, heading for the door. As soon as he was out of sight, he would return to his true master with the good news; now, it was time to watch events play out, and hope that everything would play out in his master's favor.

_The army is almost ready. We just need another week, another dozen cemeteries and tombs._

VVVVV

"What do you make of the Archon's invasion?" Lord Brennan asked, standing over the table map of the Southrun.

"He sees a fruit ripe for the taking, and he plans to pick it," Kleiner said.

"That's pessimistic."

"And true," Kleiner retorted. "Connaughtsshire, in it's broken state, is ripe for the picking. And he's going to pluck it right off the goddamn vine."

"We're going to fight, right?" Brennan asked, as if unsure.

"Oh, most definitely. I don't plan to hand him his treasures. The Archon will have to spill blood if he wants our lands," Kleiner said.

"And what of Cymander?"

"What of him?"

"He hasn't made any movement," Brennan pointed out.

"Yes, he's been quiet and very still...I do wonder if he's still on our side."

"He does what is best for himself, selfish bastard," Brennan cursed.

"He's still a valuable asset. We need to get into contact with him. Send a bat," Kleiner ordered. "We need to prepare the defense of this city."

"What should I tell him?"

"Just send the damn bat with my seal. He'll know what he needs to do," Kleiner ordered again. "Have someone else do it. I need you."

"For what, my lord?" Brennan inquired.

"The defense of Crestan."

"So this is where we make our stand against the Archon? Do you believe he'll come this far north?"

"If he wants us, he can come get us," Kleiner smirked. "What else would you have me do?"

"Nothing else, my lord. We want him to come to us, yes," Brennan agreed.

"We'll figure something out. Get that bat to Cymander, and then return quickly. Our time is short."

Just as Kleiner finished dispatching his order, something smacked into the side of the command tent, tearing a large gash in the fabric. A small object plummeted out of the darkened sky and, having torn through the canvas of the tent, crashed into the ground, collapsing onto the earth in a pathetic heap.

The two men thought at first that the creature was dead; however, almost immediately afterwards the tiny bat began to stir, rising up and revealing the tiny pouch attached to its leg.

"It's a messenger bat," Brennan pointed out, rather redundantly.

"I don't recognize the symbol on that pouch. Open it," Kleiner ordered, and the other man reluctantly stooped down, inching close to the bat, as if afraid that it would bite. However, it did not such thing; even when he grasped the tiny pouch and opened it, the mammal did not attack him; it sat on the ground in a daze, visibly bleeding from impact.

"Swampheart," Brennan breathed one word.

"A bat from Swampheart? We've lost contact with them for months," Kleiner remembered, awestruck. "Well, what does it say!?"

"It's an SOS of sorts," Brennan said, examining the tiny message. "I...find it hard to read, but it's legible. A cry for help. They're besieged," he finished.

"Besieged? By whom? They're so isolated," Kleiner pondered, wringing his hands nervously.

"It does not say. It only says their city is surrounded by a vast horde, and they are running out of time. It's a cry for help, my lord."

"That much is obvious," Kleiner fretted. "A cry for help at the worst damn time."

"This bat must've been sent weeks ago. It's in terrible state, look at it-"

Brennan turned around to point out the creature, but it had already expired. In its last moments, it had delivered the message, died in its line of duty. The tiny brown, furry pile lay in a sad state on the earth, having face-planted the ground before expiring completely.

"It is dead."

"It died doing its job. Let us not let its death be in vain," Brennan urged.

"What would you have me do? We were just discussing how royally fucked we are," Kleiner reminded Brennan angrily.

"There must be something. Even if we just send a bat back, acknowledging them-"

"That would be like giving Swampheart a giant middle finger. I will not send something back just telling them that we received their message," Kleiner argued.

"What would you do, then?"

"I will give it some thought. Tomorrow morning, I will make a decision. But I will not leave the city of Swampheart to fend for itself," Kleiner stated.

The dark skies began to rain ash down once more, a solemn funeral for the brave messenger.


	24. The Lapis Lord's Play

**Hello internet!**

**It seems like it's been a long time since my last update. Has it been? I don't keep track of time well. ANYWAY. Here's your newest chapter! I've had this one ready for a while, as I've been trying to stay two or three chapters ahead in order to avoid a hangup due to writers' block.**

**REVIEW ANSWERS:**

**EclipseWolf64: Yes, I saw your review fail :P Everyone does them, it's okay! And no relationships to Mina here!**

**HPE24: I can't promise you any deaths :P It's evil what he's doing, since he's basically raping her, but hey, you reap what you sow. And you know his reaping is going to be painful :DDD THANK YOU FOR THE HUNDREDTH REVIEW THOUGH**

**dmgnfangirl080: The bat died a hero. HIS SACRIFICE WILL NEVER BE FORGOTTEN.**

**VerinSedai: Congrats on catching up! And yes, the messenger bat made a brave sacrifice! He will be remembered.**

**VVVVV**

"You didn't think of something?" were Brennan's second set of words to James Kleiner that morning. The first set, naturally, had been "Did you think about Swampheart?"

"I gave it some consideration," Kleiner answered, gnawing grumpily at the wedge of stale cheese. The ash was beginning to blow now, accumulating up against the walls of the tent as it was spread by the wind.

"But you didn't come up with anything?" Brennan pressed.

"It's not an easy solution."

"Time is running against you, my lord," Brennan reminded him.

"I know. Did _you _think of anything?" Kleiner changed the subject.

"I profess I did not-"

"Then don't press me," he grumbled, taking another bite from the hardened cheese. "I will have an answer. I had an idea..."

"That's better than nothing," Brennan said.

"It won't get us anywhere," Kleiner grumbled. "I was going to send troops to the city's aid," he explained.

"Troops?"

"One hundred of our best rangers. A good company of hardened, trained soldiers," Kleiner continued, setting the cheese aside and drawing himself up to his work desk. He signed a few missives and handed them to the courier waiting at the door, who rushed out of the tent and out into the ashy rain, leaving the canvas flaps fluttering in the wind.

"That's futile, my lord," Brennan shook his head in disbelief.

"I know it is. I am well aware. It's a suicide mission, that's what it is."

"You'd throw away valuable men on...something like this?" Brennan inquired, still in disbelief. "That is..."

"Irresponsible? Foolish? Needless? Perhaps all three. But I have to do something. And these rangers may at least be able to help. They are good men, well trained in the art of the bow and arrow," Kleiner pointed out.

"They will be hopelessly outnumbered," Brennan acknowledged.

"Aye. Outnumbered, but not outmatched."

"It will not matter in the end," Brennan said.

"No...no, it will not. But it might at least prolong that bloody, horrible end," Kleiner hoped.

"What company do you plan to gather, then? Are you ready for your orders to be carried out?" Brennan asked, knowing that the deal was finally sealed.

"The sooner the better," Kleiner agreed, rising back up from his chair, wringing his hands anxiously. "Odds and ends from each company. You are to give them their orders, is that clear?"

"Aye, my lord. I'll cobble who I can together, all elites," Brennan answered, bowing stiffly.

"Good. Send them off as soon as possible," Kleiner told him, but the other lord was already out of the tent flaps, disappearing into the strengthening ash storm outside. Kleiner, coughing from the dry air, sat back down and sealed more missives, pretending that he was not sending a hundred men to their untimely, and inevitable death.

VVVVV

Darius Cymander sat upon a pile of money.

Literally and figuratively.

Sometimes, he liked to sit upon the massive piles of gold residing in the treasury of the city of Moon's Eye, the southernmost metropolis in Connaughtsshire. They were giant piles of gold coins, nearly eight feet tall, a symbol of the mighty wealth that the independent trade city had accumulated.

And the metropolis sat upon the world's largest known deposit of lapis lazuli, from which the port got it's name. "The Blue Port" is what many traders called it; whether they come from Dunnefold Port, or Shadeshore, or the Free Cities, or even further in any direction, they knew the colloquial name for the great seaside city at the end of the province.

From his quarters at the top of the Moon Palace, sitting on a sizeable hill at the center of the city, Cymander could see the huge circular port down below, teeming with trading ships. The harbor had an interesting design to it; it was massive, but the entrance was tiny, only admitting a maximum of two ships at a time, one if they were one of the massive quinqueremes of the Free Cities. This was sort of a bottleneck into the harbor that prevented massive movements of ships inside; it was designed not only to hold off an invading fleet, but also to regulate merchant traffic. The design was incredibly efficient, and allowed Cymander to handle the massive flow of trading traffic into and out of the city.

Just as he was about to shut his eyes and recline upon the featherbed that served as one of his resting places, the doors to the quarters were thrown open and harsh footsteps echoed upon the marble tile, urgent and hurried. Cymander, annoyed by the intrusion unto his personal time, sat up begrudgingly as the courier arrived.

"I was not to be disturbed," Cymander growled before the courier could speak.

"My lord...incoming-"

"Were my orders not clear?"

"Archon's fleet...coming...sea..." the courier sputtered. He had been running, obviously; they all ran. It was always annoying to have a runner arrive out of breath and struggle to spell out his message in gasps.

"Sykardos' fleet? Is it landing at the city?" Cymander asked, calmly.

"About...a quarter of it," the courier informed him. "Under the Admiral Karthos. They will be taking the city, we've received word from one of our inside men."

"Ancients bless that man. It is good that we've received advance word," Cymander said.

"Do you want me to summon your constable, my Lord?" the courier asked.

"Yes, and send prepare an assembly for when the fleet arrives," Cymander ordered, rising from his recliner.

"An...assembly, my Lord? I'm afraid I'm unclear on that," the courier bowed slightly.

"We're surrendering. Let the advisors and the councillors know that we're to meet the good Admiral when he lands and hand the city over to him," Cymander explained curtly. When his order was met with a dumbstruck look on the young runner's face, he grew impatient.

"You heard what I said. _Go_," he hissed, and the runner took off, back to where he came from. Cymander knew that the reaction his decision would receive would be unanimously abhorrent. After a few minutes of standing by the window and studying a map laid out on his work desk, having watched the trading ships leave the harbor, one by one, headed for distant ports, he heard the door open again and saw his constable, decked out in ceremonial plate armor, walk in.

"Are you surrendering the city, Lord Cymander?" he asked curtly as he entered, bowing stiffly when he came to a halt.

"Is that what you've heard?"

"That was the order given from you, my Lord," he said.

"Ah, yes. That was the decision I made," Cymander said, almost smiling. "I made that 'decision'."

"I detect some other tone in your voice, my Lord. Are you going to surrender?" the constable asked again.

"It's a ruse, did you think I was really going to surrender?" Cymander asked, smirking.

"It seemed suspicious. Why did you announce your surrender?"

"All part of the ruse. I suppose I'm still planning the next steps, but so far so good, eh?" Cymander chuckled. "Are you with me?"

"Of course, my Lord," the constable answered, bowing stiffly once more. "What do you require of me?"

"Have the Lapiscloaks ready. For all intents and purposes, we are surrendering to the Admiral Karthos when he arrives. Remember, we are 'surrendering'," Cymander reminded him.

"I shall have them mustered, my Lord-"

"And send for my wife, as well. I'd like to speak with her before I go out," Cymander ordered, returning to the window.

On the horizon, the vague silhouettes of tall-masted sails could be seen growing nearer every moment. The fleet of Admiral Karthos was slowly becoming visible, approaching like some sort of imminent seaborne doom. Cymander wondered if his little ruse would work or not. Cymander was not old, nor was he young; he was in his mid-forties, with a fuzzy covering of light brown hair upon his head, and a few tufts of hair on his chin. He was burly but not fat, tall but not giant, and he had the hardened visage of a weathered warrior. After a short while, his reliable constable returned with his lady wife.

"The Lady Suwon, my lord," he bowed generously.

"Thank you. Go down to the harbor and tell the sentries to prepare a canoe and the chain. You know what we will do," Cymander ordered. The constable paused for a moment, before bowing again and leaving, clanking as he departed for the docks.

"I'm afraid I am unclear on what you are trying to accomplish, my Lord," Lady Suwon Kim spoke, gracefully approaching her husband without making a noise. Her hair rolled down her back like a jet black waterfall, spreading over her shoulders and covering her ears entirely. She was younger than Darius was, still in her thirties, and still beautiful. It was a common saying in Connaughtsshire that Suwon Kim was the loveliest noblewoman in the entire province; she had her competition in Elena Lanos, but that mattered little now. She came up to Cymander's shoulder and wrapped her supple arms around his chest gently, grasping him softly from behind.

"Do talk to me..."

"I do not intend to surrender. Is that what you have been told?" Cymander asked her, still looking out to sea.

"A few of the captains spoke of it, yes," she admitted.

"They are misled. I am trying to keep this a secret. I will deceive the Admiral, you know I wouldn't surrender the city just like that," he explained. "I intend to make my 'surrender' apparent, and then strike if he is fooled. If he is not fooled, there will be blood."

"There cannot be fighting inside the city. There would be too much damage," Lady Kim fretted.

"There will be in the harbor. We will trap them and slaughter them like fish in a barrel."

"I don't like this plan. Too much can go wrong, what if you don't deceive the Admiral?" Lady Kim posited.

"We will destroy his fleet one way or another. Whether we take him by surprise, or whether we come to even grips, he will be defeated. I am confident in that," Cymander spoke, removing her arms from around his chest.

"You are overly confident-"

"Don't counteract me like that," Cymander growled. "I know what I am doing. I know that this will work out," he turned around. She stood there for a moment, her arms slowly falling back to her sides.

"Er...of course, my lord. I'm sorry I questioned you," she apologized quietly.

"There can be no questions now. The fateful hour is upon us, I've set everything in motion. Constable Chalmers knows what to do, he will have the trap ready to spring when the signal is given."

"And what do you plan to do afterwards?" Lady Kim asked him, folding her hands in a mannerly way.

"Afterwards?"  
"Well, I quite expect that...well, that you expect to succeed with your plan," Lady Kim stammered awkwardly. "What do you plan to do afterwards?"

"What business is that of yours?"

"I...want to know that you are planning for the future, my lord," she covered up quickly, hoping that he wasn't becoming suspicious. "Do...do I not have a right to know?"

"I plan to march. But where to march...that is the question. But you know now that I have a plan, so stop asking questions!" Cymander snapped. "It's not your business to know."

"My apologies for inquiring," Lady Kim bowed, trying to sound as genial as possible, hiding the tiny flinch of her upper lip as she did.

"I will take the Archon on somewhere...somewhere..." Cymander picked up a quill, dabbed it in ink, and circled three spaces on a map he had laid out on his writing desk, next to the window.

"Do you wish for me to be there with you when you...er...surrender?" Lady Kim inquired politely, attempting to fulfill her role as an obedient wife. Despite her reservations, she knew that it would be uncanny for her to stay locked away in safety while her husband went to a parlay.

"I would like to have you with me, at least in my party. It would be strange not to, ladies always attend to their lords," Cymander remarked, turning his attention back to the window. He was unable to see his wife's mouth twitch just slightly, unable to glimpse that brief annoyance that disappeared like a sudden breeze. She smiled warmly as soon as he turned back around.

"Of course, my lord. I shall be by your side the entire time." She made her way slowly over to the writing desk, keeping her eye on the window, as if she wanted to appreciate the sun and the air.

"Or behind me," Cymander corrected. "I think men should stay beside men. It is only natural for women to be in attendance. You will be present, but I must have my constable and my commander by my side."

"Of course, my lord. Naturally, I belong in the train of the nobler men," Lady Kim appeased him, feeling an old anger brooding once again in her chest as she bent over the desk, inked the quill and wrote out a small message on a loose slip of paper. "When will you go?"

"Now, of course," Cymander replied, as if that were very obvious. "We will want to be there to greet them, and I need time to gather my escort. But we will depart now. What are you doing?"

"A message for a lady companion. I will have a courier deliver it," she smiled, stowing the message away hurriedly in her hand. Cymander sniffed discontentedly, but forgot the matter.

He offered his hand to his wife, who politely accepted; her grip was stronger than usual, which disturbed him slightly. Anything out of the ordinary disturbed Darius Cymander; if something was different in his normal routine, it was distressing to him.

The entire escort had already been assembled by some of the constable's couriers; Cymander had to hand it to the man, his organizational system was top-notch. All of the city councillors, the coinmen, the guard captains and the counts had been gathered in the entrance hall of the Moon Palace, at the bottom of the grand staircase that descended from the balcony upon which the two had entered. They were all nervously speaking amongst each other; a few of them laughed, awkwardly at best, and silence fell when Darius and his silent wife arrived.

"My lord Cymander...Constable Chalmers is meeting us at the docks. He is bringing with him the escort's guards," one of the counts said as Cymander descended the flight of steps down into the entrance hall. He let go of his wife's hand, preferably to avoid any sort of awkward situation, and gave his full attention to the count.

"Thank you for relaying this information to me. Do we have guards now?"

"A few, my lord," he said. "But Chalmers...will have more. He promised, my lord."

"Good, good. We will depart now. I will tell the escort to lead us."

By now, the entire city was aware of the surrender. The news had spread quickly, from person to person, and many of the denizens of the Moon's Eye had come out onto the streets to watch their once beloved lord pass them. Cymander was glad that his group was escorted by at least a few bodyguards. They were threatening-looking men, armed with heavy poleaxes and armored in iron plate, three of them walking on each side of the lengthy procession. Despite the ugly looks that Cymander knew he was receiving from the sidelines, he pressed on, hoping that his actions within the next hour would redeem him in the eyes of his beloved citizens.

It was like that for nearly a mile; from the Moon Palace, the cobblestone boulevard wound its way down to sea level, at the trading docks. The tall sails were growing closer, now fully visible in the distance not five miles out; upon reaching the dockyards, Cymander could see a sizeable force of armed men already there, and he could pick out his loyal constable speaking to one of the captains.

"He brought close to a hundred men...does that not seem suspicious?" one of the coinmen inquired as they walked.  
"A bit, perhaps. But it is only for our protection," Cymander warded off his question. He wondered briefly where his wife was, but she had become lost in the train of noblemen and captains.

"I was unaware that you would be coming with such an escort yourself, Lord Cymander," Chalmers greeted him as the party arrived upon the stone jetty that would serve as their parlay point.

"We had to have a few. The townsfolk do not seem to be very...genial today," Cymander said, quite an understatement.

"They are ashamed that you simply gave up. Or, rather, 'gave up'," Chalmers said. "I would expect nothing less of them. We are a proud city, and this is the most unexpected turn of events."

"It's about to become even more unexpected. Are the _tormenti _positioned?" Cymander asked.

"Hidden in plain sight, my lord. Can you find them?"

"I have no time for such games, Constable," Cymander said, annoyed. "I just wanted you to confirm."

"Aye, my lord. They're ready as they'll ever be."

The waiting was excruciating; all around the dockyard workers and commoners were visible, gathering around the compact party standing on the stone jetty, watching them with scrutinizing eyes. Water sprayed upon the damp stones, a chilly breeze ruffled clothing and matted hair. Cymander watched the sails grow ever closer, and two by two they entered the narrow "keyhole" that allowed access into the harbor. The mighty ships had three rows of oars and upon the sails bore the red blade of Ais Kleisardathos, the Archon's standard. Dozens of them filed into the massive harbor, waiting until the last one had entered before they threw down anchor and the nearest one deployed its gangplank.

Cymander watched the exoticly-dressed men disembark from their trireme, their purple satin and red silk clothing billowing furiously in the wind that was beginning to pick up. No other gangplanks were deployed from the other ships; they stayed silent, floating sentinel in the calm waters of the blue bay as they waited.

What Cymander presumed to be the captain of the main trireme approached him slowly, followed by a train of sailors armed with poleaxes and wicked-looking spears. They had no armor, except for leather pieces strapped to their chest, but they looked deadly enough with such powerful and long weapons.

"Lord Dariussss Cymander," the leading man spoke with an "s" rolling accent as he approached, bowing only slightly.

"Are you the captain of this vessel?"

"Hah! A captain? Well, perhaps a long time ago," the luxuriously dressed Kleisardathan snorted. "I am Admiral Karthos, in case you were wondering. The man you are going to ssssurrender your city to, no?" he reminded Darius.

"Yes, of course I remember. We will parlay here," Cymander said.

"Here? Upon the jetty? Preposssssterous," Karthos laughed, slapping his belly boisterously. "Perhaps we can find a much drier place, no?"

"We parlay here," Cymander repeated firmly.

"Ah. Very well then, let ussss get on with it if that is your decissssion," Karthos affirmed, somewhat disappointed. "Have you drawn up a treaty of any sssort?"

"We have one. Constable Chalmers?" Cymander called back, and his reliable constable pushed his way through the concerned crowd of noble men and women as he came to the assistance of his liege. More Kleisardathan sailors were streaming out of the ship, surrounding the Admiral on the jetty. They stood only a few feet from the front group of Cymander's party.

"This has been drawn up as an official document that will, with a few signatures and a mutual pact between the two leaders of the respective factions, hand the city of Moon's Eye, along with all of its lands and possessions and people, over to the nation of Ais Kleisardathos, and its leaders and nobility," Chalmers announced in an official voice, reading from the treaty. "There must be signatures."

"I sssshall gladly provide mine," Karthos spoke genially, taking the treaty and reading it over. "I am ssssso glad we arrived at this compromise without bloodsssshed," he made small talk.

"Ah, yes. Indeed," Cymander patronized him, annoyed by the grating accent. This was an enemy, after all; this man had come to take his city, and thought that he was going to get away with it by signing a piece of paper. They shouldn't be talking like old chums, it wasn't right.

"You have drawn up an excellent treaty, Consssstable," Karthos complimented Chalmers, who had already stepped back into the party. "Your man should be proud."  
"Yes, of course."

"I shall sign. Give me a brief moment," Karthos announced, wearily turning his back from Cymander to his own group of soldiers. A podium had been presented by a slave that allowed the admiral to sign his name on the spaces provided; Cymander used the interlude to lean over to his constable and speak with him.

"When's their cue?" he asked in a whisper, barely audible.

"Cue, my lord?"

"The chain, damnit, the chain!" he hissed.

"What chain?"

"The trap, dumbass! _You _came up with the idea!" Cymander raged quietly, hoping that the Admiral would hold off a bit longer.

"Oh, right, that...any moment now..."

Cymander looked hopefully up to the sentry tower that stood sentinel over the harbor entrance, waiting for the flaming arrow that would act as a signal. Chalmers had planned all of this out so carefully; if something had screwed up...

"If we sign this paper before the trap springs, the city must go," Cymander reminded him.

"I realize that. Just...we need just a few more seconds..."

Before Cymander returned to face the Admiral, he saw a blur of movement to his left side, and saw a figure that looked slightly female drawing back into the crowd. However, it was apparent that nothing had happened; he ignored it, pretending that the minor distraction had not occurred.

Then came the actual distraction.

It was barely visible from the jetty, but Cymander saw the bright yellow projectile launch up into the sky, reach the peak of its parabola, and then come back down to finish the arc, dragged back to the earth by the power of gravity.

_There's the signal. Now it begins..._

Karthos had not noticed at all. A few of the sailors had seen the arrow, but they paid no heed to it; they were expecting mass resistance, not a single arrow.

_Little did they know._

Cymander prayed that the longboat would hurry, and that it could achieve its objective before any of the Kleisardathans noticed.

"Very well then, I have sssssigned all of the spaces that you dessssired," Karthos spoke snakelike, turning back around. "Please finish this dreadful bussssiness."

He had a servant drag the podium over to Cymander, and the lord was handed both the treaty and the quill it was used to write with. A small pot of ink was placed beside the paper on the podium, and for a brief moment Cymander studied the draft.

The future of Moon's Eye depended on whether or not the trap was sprung; Cymander knew that the men who were manning the hidden _tormenti_ would be able to see the narrow strait into the harbor, and they would fire upon the enemy when the chain was pulled across. He tried to play his part convincingly; he dipped the quill into the dark black ink and drew it in swift movements across the light white paper, signing his full name in dashing marks in each space.

"I am glad that you have decided to avoid bloodssssshed," Karthos said again, bored now. "I await your completion."

"Of course. I need time to read everything so that I understand the terms," Cymander said, trying to buy the trap more time.

"You drew this treaty up, no?" Karthos asked, surprised and bemused.

"My Constable was the one who drew it up," Cymander corrected. "He may have slipped details in that I am unaware of."

Chalmers looked uncomfortable, shifting his feet slightly as the Admiral cast a suspicious glance upon him. Cymander returned quickly to the treaty, but before his quill could draw another stroke a cry came from far back in the harbor, amongst the mass of thirty or so ships anchored in the waters.

"They're blocking the exit! They're blocking the exit!" the cry came from one of the crows' nests of one of the smaller biremes, and the entire coalition of Kleisardathans present upon the jetty turned their attention to the cry briefly, just briefly. It was long enough; Cymander took the quill, launched himself forward, and jabbed the sharp end of the writing implement into the Admiral's throat before the Kleisardathan could even turn back around to defend himself. As soon as Cymander launched himself into action, his guards followed; they pushed their way through the crowd methodically, not caring who they knocked off into the shallow waters of the harbor below. They approached in rigid formation as the Kleisardathan sailors turned to defend themselves; the two sides clashed, poleaxes and sabres cutting flesh and hitting armor as the escorts began to fight. Cymander himself pulled back out of the fighting, ripping the quill out of Karthos' throat and letting the armored guards take his place, allowing the Admiral's lifeless body to slump to the ground and be trampled by dozens of mailed feet.

Nobles and coinmen struggled in the waters below, grabbing ahold of access ladders or flailing about in the waters. From the rooftops around the city, ballistas and mangonels rained their deadly payload down upon the cluster of ships that were trying to raise their anchors and escape; but there would be no escape.

A chain, made specifically for such a purpose, had been hauled across the only exit from the harbor, effectively trapping the Admiral's fleet inside of the harbor. The few ships that had stayed outside of the port to keep watch were already fleeing, having been witness to the chaos erupting inside the city. Cymander was expecting this to happen; all of this was expected.

What _was _unexpected was the sudden turnout of thousands of armed civilians, bearing pitchforks and clubs and carving knives and all sorts of handmade weapons. Cymander stopped for an instant, mid-stride, watching as the streets around the harbor filled with life, a throng of angry locals milling about and spilling out of the alleyways like ants. For a moment, he was afraid.

But the instant that gangplanks were dropped onto the ships, he knew what they were doing. They were not attacking him, they were not launching an uprising; they were defending their city, attacking those who had attempted to take the Moon's Eye without a single drop of blood. Dozens of makeshift gangplanks found their way up onto the stranded ships of Karthos' fleet, where the Kleisardathan sailors were already struggling to defend themselves from the rain of projectiles coming from the _tormenti_. The mob of armed commoners was just the coup de grace that finished off the doomed fleet.

Cymander found himself quite quickly surrounded by an entourage of personal guard, who flocked to him the moment they realized he was quite alone in the fray, out of harm's way but still within the peripheries of danger. He found himself encircled and slowly escorted off of the jetty, as other soldiers poured around their small band and headed for the Admiral's flagship. Cymander attempted to fight his way out of the huddle of armored men, seeking his Constable. He didn't have to look long; Chalmers was standing, quite calmly, in the middle of the fray out on the waterfront, with his own small troupe of armored guards around him, observing the melee and the hail of projectiles still raining down on the Kleisardathan fleet.

"Good to see you alive and well, my Lord," Chalmers greeted quite enthusiastically.

"My lady wife-"

"Already escorted to the palace, along with most of the councillors and noblemen. A few we know drowned, and we are still searching for a few others..."

It did not matter to Cymander who else died; a few princes and coinmen would not be missed, except by their money. As long as his wife and the more important members of his entourage were safe, he could breathe easily.

"These men can escort you to the palace, my lord. I will handle business here," Chalmers offered.

"No...I will stay." Cymander spoke firmly, and Chalmers did not question him.

_My people must know that I mean to fight. I will stand here and watch the last ship burn, watch until all of the Kleisardathans have drowned and died. When their bodies are cold, I will return_.

For hours after the battle, great galleys foundered and burned within the harbor. Late into the night, they burned, until the last one disappeared beneath the bloodied waters of the harbor.

VVVVV

Lady Suwon Kim hurriedly copied down the contents of the map onto the slip of paper, desperately scribbling notes and locations down onto the flimsy parchment. She didn't have enough time, and the ink was constantly running out.

Hurriedly, she put the finishing touches onto the southern edge of the coastline, all the way down to Shadeshore, blew fiercely on the wet ink to dry it, and then rolled the parchment up just as the doors to the main hall flew open, and her husband strode in, accompanied by his Constable and one of his generals.

None of the men noticed that she quickly withdrew from the work desk and stowed the parchment away in her flowing satin robes, hoping that she had been quick enough to hide her message. She was completely ignored by all of them; they walked on by, heading for one of the conference rooms to plan maneuvers, no doubt. Lady Kim felt that old anger return to her, but she pressed it back down to its dark depths once more and made sure the parchment was tucked deep within her robes.

It would reach the Archon in due time. She just had to find the one person who would bring it to him.


	25. The City Lost in Ice

**Hello internet! Exb here!  
This is a very special (to me) chapter because I put in a (hopefully major) plot twist that (hopefully) will be a surprise. I'm not good at plot twists, let's just leave it at that. I guess I'll just to have to see what the reactions are!**

**REVIEW ANSWERS:**

**woohooman14: Never trust **_**anyone**_**! Who knows who the next backstabber might be?**

**EclipseWolf64: So much caps I can't even. And Matt doesn't take off the pendant because Rykar is forcing him not to :P**

**VerinSedai: I promise I won't murder you with a quill! Oddly specific, but I'll hold to my promise!**

**VVVVV**

Biomes had a strange way of...well, being placed.

When the world had formed, or so it was said according to legend, it formed with a tropical south, a temperate north, and ice caps in the extremes, with out-of-place biomes scattered around at random intervals. It had occurred at the whim of whoever had created the world; supposedly it was the original creator of Minecraft, the late Markus Persson, who had crafted the simulation from scratch. There were plenty of rumors that existed about the genesis of the simulation, but one thing was for sure: the entire world was based on organized chaos.

Within a few miles, the terrain and the climate had changed drastically. They had been walking through a cool, windswept sea of grass, following an old dirt pathway through the tall clumps of sawgrass. Within a few minutes, the temperature had begun to drop; small patches of snow dotted the roadway, and any puddles were frozen over.

Within another few minutes, they were in the grip of winter. It was late afternoon when they truly arrived into the hand of winter.

The biome that Iceport lay in was completely frozen over; without proper winter gear, Matt was beginning to feel the chill seep through his armor and clothing and bite into his skin, gnawing at him as they struggled on. A cold wind whipped through the small vale they were traveling in, borne down from the ridged, craggy hills above them.

The city was built out of stone, some of it carved into a small mountain that overlooked the frozen port. It was ancient, dating back thousands of years, but it seemed relatively untouched by the ravages of time. Some buildings had fallen apart, and snow had covered much of it, but it was easy to make out and most of the visible structures looked to be intact.

"I'm surprised it's still standing," Royce grunted, snorting sarcastically. "You'd think everything would've fallen apart by now..."

"You'd be quite surprised," Rykar said lazily. "Let's go on."

"Shouldn't we wait until morning, though? It's late, and we've still got a ways to go," Royce complained. Kellan chimed in as well, arguing that he was tired of riding and that his legs ached.

"It was your damned idea to come along with us, boy!" Rykar hissed at him. "Shut the hell up and deal with it! We're getting into the city by nightfall," he ordered. Matt did not complain; he let the other two men fall silent, and followed the castellan down a gentle slope towards the port.

Over the past several days, Rykar had become more and more irritable; his mood was fouler, his temper was shorter, and he cursed far more often than he normally did.

Matt noticed that he was changing as well; the pendant was disturbing him. He continuously had night terrors, waking up in a cold sweat from the grip of a panic-inducing nightmare, and he had been suffering from a constant mild fever the past three days, which had been exacerbated by their lack of sleep on the road. It had taken all of the strength that he could muster to stay upright in the saddle, and the pendant wasn't doing him any good. Every moment he could hear a very distinct, barely audible clicking somewhere around his ears; it would not cease, ever. It wasn't overtly distressing, but it was omnipresent, always ringing in his ears, and sometimes it drove him so mad that he began to fidget uncontrollably. He knew that Rykar had taken notice, but the castellan had done _nothing_; he hadn't even spoken to Matt, or even asked him about the pendant. It was as if he was being drawn into a different world.

"Man...you look pale," Kellan noticed as he rode side by side with Matt.

"I...yeah, I'm not in good shape..."

"We should stop and find a place to camp here. You're not looking too good," Kellan said.

"No, no, it's fine...I can get to the city, it's not too far," Matt shook him off, shuddering from the cold. The clicking was there, too; it took all of his willpower to avoid boxing his ears just to get the omnipresent sound to depart for a brief moment. A painful ringing was more welcome than the distinct, high-pitched pulse.

"You've used up more than half of our antibiotics," Kellan pointed out, before realizing that was the wrong thing to say. "Not that...that's a problem, sorry man-"

"No offense taken."

"It's kept your fever down, at least," he pointed out optimistically. "And hey, we're finally here...now all we need to do is get back, bro, and we're all good!"

_I doubt there's going to be a journey home, Kellan. At least not yet._

To be frank, none of the party members had even given any thought to getting back to the Ditch; they were pretty low on rations, and their mounts were becoming tired. They were far from any civilization, having passed the last farmhouse three days ago. South was all charred, uninhabitable wasteland, and north was ice and desert until one reached the city-state of Swampheart. They could go north, but that would take them even farther from their destination...

"Man, it's freaking cold," Kellan shivered, trying to make decent conversation.

"Yep," Matt confirmed blandly, shifting his weight so he could stay in the saddle. Snow began to swirl around them, picked up by a growing wind. They passed jagged rock and ice formations as they descended further down towards the city, coming closer to the frozen bay.

"I'd give anything to be back in Dallas, dude. It might've been hot there...but that's better than freezing to death."

A lifetime resident of rainy Seattle, Matt had no comment. He had lived all of his life in a city that really had no idea what summer was like, and where the clouds seemed to open up every single day.

Night had fallen by the time they had reached the city walls. They were right at the edge of the old port now, but they still had to find the entry gate, provided that it was accessible. By then, snow had begun to fall, and it was obvious that a storm was picking up, moving in from the east. Matt shivered quietly, trying to drown out the clicking by sniffling as much as he could, retaining much of the phlegm that his system was producing. He felt miserable, his head heavy like a block of lead and feeling quite dopey and sluggish. The dropping temperatures did little to help.

It was possible that he had just picked up an illness from someone and was going through the stages of it, but he had been struggling with it ever since he had put the pendant around his neck and left the Ditch. Something about that damned necklace was damaging his physical health; he felt weaker, more lethargic, his senses were dulled and his decision making had been hampered since he had left the Vault with the pendant. But every time he removed it, Rykar scolded him and forced him to put it back on, even abusively threatening him at one point. Matt had not the strength to argue with a man as commanding as Rykar Bergensten, so he was forced to continue to wear the pendant while his mental faculties suffered from the strain.

And somewhere out in the snow, Matt heard a voice.

It was a brief whisper, unintelligible, but it caught his attention all the same, and surprised him so much that he jerked on the reins of the horse and wheeled it around swiftly, causing the beast to reel in surprise and spaz out momentarily. The whisper had been only brief, but it had been sudden and very loud, and Matt found himself glancing about in all directions, searching for some formless shape in the swirling torrent of icy flakes around them.

"Matt? Something wrong?" Kellan asked, and that caught the attention of the other two men, who stopped their horses and turned around.

"I...heard something, or someone..."

"Something, or someone?" Royce asked, perplexed and concerned.

"It could've just been the wind," Kellan suggested. "It messes with your mind like that."

"If it's the wind, nothing's wrong. If it is _somebody_, that's a whole other issue," Royce fretted.

"Matt. What did you hear?" Rykar asked, pulling up beside the former.

"It was...just a whisper, a sound..." Without hesitating, Matt glanced down at the pendant, the tiny pearl shining in the light of Rykar's torch, and had a sudden panic attack, as if seized by a phantasmic force.

"It was probably just the wind. Let's get moving again..."  
"No. It was the pendant," Matt gasped, suddenly feeling his chest tighten with apprehension. The clicking grew louder in his ear, as if it recognized that he was panicking and decided to add to the recipe of chaos.

"You're hearing things in the wind, Matt. You're sick, let's get you inside and get you safe," Rykar said, annoyed.

"No, no, it was the pendant, I know it was," Matt argued, suddenly feeling nauseous. He gripped his stomach, his chest constricting him, and half fell out of his horse, struggling to get out of the stirrups. He was in the grip of a sudden panic, and somehow the chain of the pendant felt tighter, like it was trying to strangle him.

"Matt, get back on your horse! You're imagining things!" Rykar shouted, and something Royce said was drowned out by all of the chaos. Matt stumbled through snow and over rocks, grasping at his throat suddenly, feeling an even icier pall close over him. He found a slab of rock and fell back against it, reaching for the chain of the necklace and pulling it off of him, trying to free himself from its grip. He put his back to the stone slab just as Rykar grabbed him by the shoulders and took control of him. The stinging, painful slap of a mailed hand came across his cheek like a lightning bolt.

"Damnit, Matthew! Stop fucking around! Get the damn pendant back on and get on your damn horse! I don't have time for this!" Rykar swore, his face lit up with a sudden anger. He shook Matt aggressively several times before pushing him back against the stone and letting him go.

Matt was stunned and required another brutal slap across the face to come to his senses, if only momentarily. The whispers stopped and the panic attack subsided, but the clicking was still there, if more subtle.

"I...I'm sorry-"

"Get the pendant on, get back on your fucking horse," Rykar swore again, more fiercely. "Now!"

Matt was so unused to this kind of behavior from the normally calm, considerate castellan. He slipped the pendant back over his neck with a growing sense of dread, and stumbled after Rykar as they returned to their horses.

True, he had been acting differently the past few days, more introverted and quiet and easy to aggravate, but this was something totally different...maybe it was exhaustion taking its toll on the ever-vigilant castellan? He had never shouted like that before or directed his anger like that towards anybody who was his friend. Matt could tell, by the expressions pasted upon their worn faces, that Kellan and Royce were just as surprised and dumbfounded.

Matt hopped up onto his horse-the beast had forgiven him for his panic attack earlier-as Rykar leapt up on his.

"We've lost enough time to this horseshit now. We've got to get into the city," Rykar cursed, leading the way at a faster pace. Matt and Kellan, unused to riding horses even after doing so for the past couple of weeks, found it difficult to keep pace with Royce and Rykar, who were more experienced at the usage of horses. The snow was no help either; the storm was growing fiercer and fiercer every minute, moving in from the eastern sea and directing its anger upon the frozen land.

They found the old gatehouse, still standing sentinel over the cold stones of the outer city, battered by wind and its battlements covered in a light layer of wet snow. Matt kept his head down to avoid the wind as they entered, following Rykar. He was the only one with the torch; the only light came from him, and he used that small pool of light to study the buildings on either side of the avenue, looking for a suitable dwelling to take shelter in.

"This will do," he announced firmly when they approached what looked like a small business or home. It could've been anything, really; it was a squat one-story building lining the street, and in its heyday it could've served any variety of purposes. But now it was left to abandonment and was quickly becoming covered in a small layer of snow. Matt was glad that they could fit their horses through the entry door and found stone poles dug into the ground inside, onto which they hitched their horses.

"This looks like it used to be a bakery of some sort. These poles could've supported a bench or table, and I saw furnaces on one of the other walls..."

"Bugger what it used to be," Rykar interrupted Royce. "Who cares?"

"Well, it might be interesting," Royce retorted plainly.

"It's not. And it's not your business. Set out your bedroll, and get to sleep. We wake at first dawn tomorrow," Rykar ordered.

Royce did not argue; either he figured it was a lost cause, or he was too tired and was gladly prepared to get to sleep. Kellan seemed to be in a somber mood now; whether it was because he was just as exhausted, or whether Rykar's behavior had rubbed him the wrong way, he was quiet and put out his bedroll in a corner, preferring isolation to company. He even turned to face the wall, putting his back towards Rykar and Royce. Matt realized that he wanted to be left alone, but he put his bedroll down beside Kellan anyway. The latter did not seem to mind.

"Sleeping alone tonight?"

"Well, you're over here now. So I guess not," Kellan answered quietly, already closing his eyes.

"I'm sorry-"

"You're okay. I just don't want to be anywhere near...the two of them," Kellan whispered, hushed. Neither of the adults heard him.

"Neither do I. I don't know what's up with Rykar..."

"It's the cold that's got to him," Kellan said. "I don't wanna think about it. I just want to sleep, man."

Matt could respect that; he was just as tired, and all he wanted to do was get some rest. It might've been cold outside, but the stone structure provided them with some precious warmth and shelter from the freezing precipitation, something Matt was grateful for.

The wind began blowing even harder outside, and Matt fell asleep quickly to the sound of the rushing wind.

VVVVV

Matt woke up. He did not wake up in his bedroll.

He was surrounded by darkness. This was not where he had fallen asleep the past night. It was somewhere unfamiliar...different. New. Novel.

The blackness was all around him except for where he was. He could look down and see his hands, dirty and cracked and dry, and he could see the heavy boots on his feet. There was light somewhere, but it only encompassed him; all around him was dark. Pitch black.

He took a tentative step forward. He had been in this place before. It was not where he spent his days, but where he spent his nights.

That tentative step forward did pay off; his foot hit solid ground, as it usually did. The blackness beneath his feet did not help to give him any confidence, but it was solid, and he was glad for that. Another, and another, and he felt more confident about the "ground" that he was standing on.

_Aren't you cold?_

The thoughts returned; the voice in his head that repeated the same sympathetic line, but did nothing to help him. As he walked in the blackness, it kept repeating the same question, like a parrot.

He took another step.

_Aren't you cold?_

Every night, his dreams turned to this. And he would wander in the darkness, the lone source of light on the gloomy plane, listening to the voice offer its sympathy and watch him from above, mocking.

He started walking at a normal pace, ignoring the voice. It was almost comfortable in here, now that he was used to the darkness of the dream. Whatever was watching him sensed that, and decided enough was enough.

As he took another step forward, Matt flew head first to the ground, slamming his face into whatever made up the floor beneath him. The invisible force rolled him over as soon as he hit the ground, and his vision blurred temporarily. The darkness around him was now malicious, _alive_, swirling around him as the invisible force grasped his shoulders. He could feel the cold hands gripping his clothing, their chill seeping through the fabric and perforating his bare flesh, causing an almost unendurable agony. It was not natural cold, but the cold of a thousand years of grave, of ages long past, pure pain against his flesh.

And then that shaking feeling was real, and he was forced quite violently back into the cold of the real world.

"Wake up, damnit!" Rykar cursed, shaking Matt forcefully by the shoulders. As soon as the castellan saw Matt's eyes fly open, wide in surprise, he threw Matt to the ground and released him.

"God...what did...ah...hunh," Matt gasped, his eyes wide in shock. His entire body was shaking, and it took all of his will to restrain himself and control his breathing. Such a sudden arousal from such a deep dream had shaken him, especially in such a violent manner.

"You were causing quite a stir," Royce was quick to point out, sitting beside their makeshift fire and stirring something in a small cooking pot.

"Fit to wake the whole damn city," Rykar cursed, glancing into the pot.

"Aw, come off it, there's nobody here, it's abandoned-"

"So you think. Are you willing to just accept that possibility?" Rykar questioned him.

"Well, I mean, someone might've been following us, perhaps," Royce admitted.

"And if they were, do you want them to be able to find out _exactly _where we are?"

"Well, no-"

"Matt couldn't control it, just let him be!" Kellan spoke up. Matt hadn't even noticed him there, he was right behind him, still in his little corner of solitude. He was forceful enough, apparently; either that, or Rykar decided the argument was pointless. The latter dropped it where it stood.

Matt suddenly felt a twinge of guilt for suffering through his uncontrollable nightmare; that was the first time he had ever shouted during his restless slumber. He had had the same dream before, but without the violent, abrupt ending; it was always the dream of wandering through that empty void, of hollow footsteps and gnawing whispers.

"I've almost got breakfast ready. Rykar says he knows where to go," Royce said nonchalantly, stirring his stew.

"The citadel has everything we need. The coldforge is there, we just need to find it," Rykar muttered.

"Do you know roughly where we're supposed to search?" Royce inquired innocently, but he was met with a hard frown. "No," Rykar replied firmly.

"That might be a problem..."

"It bloody well isn't. We'll find it. Get that damn stew done and let's head out."

Royce was not very happy about being forced to rush; everyone seemed to be very fed up with Rykar's antagonistic and controlling attitude. But he was the designated leader, and he had gotten them through some pretty wild country; there was no reason to dispute him now, now that they were so close to what they sought.

Matt, as he was bid, ate his portion of the stew quickly, and prepared his belongings for the trip deeper into the city. Despite a restless night spent tossing and turning, Matt felt relatively energetic, if only because his goal was so very close. They were finally going to crack open that damn pendant...

They saddled their horses quickly, leaving what supplies they wouldn't need for the short journey behind in the bakery; they could come back and retrieve them on the return trip. Rykar led the way once more, down what appeared to be a main thoroughfare through the city. The wind was blowing lightly, but the storm of the previous night was completely gone and the only trace remaining was a light blanket of snow carpeting the frozen stony ground. The horses' hooves crunched through the wet snow with every step.

Iceport's citadel wasn't difficult to find; it stood out like a sore thumb squat in the middle of the center of the once-grand city, now looking rather abandoned and fallen apart. Some of the old stone towers had crumbled, caving in or just completely collapsing and spilling their stones below them.

Luckily, the main gate was unobstructed by debris; the portcullis had been bashed down somehow, and was now lying at an awkward angle inside of the gate, its left side propped up against the stone wall. The rust was quite obvious.

"This used to be the centre of commerce for the region, thousands of years ago," Rykar said dryly, giving them a brief history lesson.

"Was it that long ago?"

"Yes, this city is old. The architecture has held up surprisingly well," he replied to Matt, almost genially. "A tribute to ancient engineering."

"Now, I don't know which building accesses the lower levels...but I would bet that the main hall will give us what we need," Rykar thought aloud, dismounting his horse at what used to be a livery. The hitching posts, made of stone, were still standing, if not freezing cold to the touch. He looped his rope around one of the poles and the others followed suit.

"Leave your gear here," Rykar commanded. "No weapons needed, either," he reprimanded when he noticed Matt tighten the buckle of his sword to his hip.

"No...blades? What if-"

"They won't be necessary. I'll take a sword along, and if we come into trouble I'll take care of it," Rykar promised. "_No weapons needed._"

Royce let the handle of his sword slide back into his scabbard, almost raising his hands into the air.  
"Alright, alright...you're the boss," he resigned, putting his weapon back. "I'll leave all of the fun stuff up to you..."

Matt was ordered to unfasten his scabbard and leave it with the horse, watched closely by Rykar. Royce reluctantly did the same, but he was allowed to keep his tiny dagger. As they prepared to depart, Matt saw something shiny sticking out of the saddlebag of Rykar's horse, and poked it lightly. It was the butt of the revolver, shining in the dim sunlight that was able to penetrate the gloomy scudding clouds gathering overhead. Without being noticed, Matt slipped the firearm out of the saddlebag and stowed it under his armor, hiding it away close to his hip where it would not be noticed. Thankfully, it did not make any noise as he moved, and it was not detectable.

Rykar led the three of them into a dim stone stairwell, lighting the way with his torch as they moved. The deeper they descended, the warmer it got; although the temperature could still be classified as "chilly", Matt appreciated the lack of wind down in the stairwell. Cold weather was always made worse by a brisk wind, which tended to sap more energy than the temperature did.

"The underneath of the Iceport citadel is quite a labyrinth," Rykar remarked as they reached a four-way turn. "Many twists and turns down here."

"Are you sure you know where you're going?" Matt asked as they took a left turn, into the darkness.

"I know. I have studied maps of this place."

"Did you? Were they in the Vault?" he asked, trying to sound more curious than judgmental. He rubbed off wrong on Rykar, however, who seemed to feel challenged.

"If _you _would like to lead the way, Matt, feel free to do so," Rykar sneered at him. "But if you do not please to do so, let _me _take charge."

Matt fell silent after that; there was no use in upsetting Rykar even further. He was, for some reason, already irritated enough. They continued in the tight, cramped stone hallway until they reached a large, circular room, about 400 feet across, that seemed to Matt to be some sort of cistern. Old, jagged, broken clay pipes jabbed out of the wall at odd intervals, and some ran across the floor, evidence of use as a sewer system a long time ago.

"This is the main reservoir, yes...but I do not remember which...passageway..."

Rykar thought aloud, and Matt realized that there were at least ten exits to the cistern, all apparently maintenance tunnels that had long fallen into disuse. The cistern had been dry for quite a long time; up above, the grayish sky was blocked out by a large iron grate, which had somehow survived the wear and tear of the fierce surface wind all these years.

"You don't remember?" Royce asked him.  
"Give me a moment, give me a damn moment," Rykar shrugged him off. "Let me think..."

He sat down on a rough-hewn stone and pondered each doorway, trying to recover his memory. Matt decided to distance himself from Rykar as much as possible, walking around the cistern and marveling at its size. Even with simple machines and strong tools, it would've taken at least a year or two to carve all of this out exactly to size. It was almost perfectly circular, Matt could tell; just by running his hand along the base, he noticed that it had an almost perfectly circular shape to it, the sign of master craftsmanship.

He caught some movement out of the corner of his eye; barely, but it was there. It was gone the moment he turned towards it.

_Nothing. A bit of wind scattering snow. Your mind's playing tricks on you._

But he knew that it was entirely possible that someone was hunting them; he couldn't gather the courage to interrupt Rykar, so he warily continued along the base of the cistern, keeping an eye on the walkway that lined it up above, the one concealed by an overhang of sorts.

_No, it's built into the wall. They dug it out of the wall so that it wouldn't protrude into the actual cistern_, he observed.

"This place is incredible!" Kellan whispered as Matt nearly ran into him. He hadn't noticed the other man bending down over what appeared to be a broken pipe, studying it curiously. "To think, they made all of this, without any kind of machinery..."

"Yeah. Pretty...impressive," Matt muttered, turning one eye to another flash of movement up above.

"Ah, yes...it's the one on the right, the fourth one," Rykar said, just before a twang echoed throughout the cistern.

The arrow sliced right past Matt's cheek and missed him by only a hair. He instinctively shoved Kellan to the side, throwing himself to the right to unnecessarily dodge the projectile. His reactions were able to get him back up; he rolled over, crunching over several rocks as more twangs could be heard. He prayed that Kellan would be able to get out of the way or that the arrows had not hit him; his only concern right now was his own safety, and he rolled out of the way before clumsily leaping up and taking off at a dead run.

More arrows, most of them flying for him; it was dead luck that not a single one of the deadly projectiles hit Matt, coming close but failing to meet their target. He was running blind, racing for one of the apertures; somewhere along the line, an arm grabbed him by the far shoulder and steered him to one of the farther doorways. He tried to struggle, fighting the person now hauling him farther away from safety.

"Rykar-what the hell are you-there's a doorway that way, there's one closer-"

"They're dead ends!" Rykar snarled, breathing heavily. "This one!"

Matt couldn't fight Rykar, and in the end the castellan dragged him down one of the hallways, out of range of the phantom archers.

"What the hell-"

"Those were dead ends, Matt. You would've been cornered," Rykar snarled, bending over to catch his breath.

"That went to shit fast," Matt swore, suddenly feeling overwhelmed. "All of a sudden...who-"

"I warned you that someone might have been hunting us, I told you before that it was a possibility," Rykar reminded him. "And our hunters decided to show up, _wonderful _timing."

"Do you know who-"

"No, I bloody don't know who they are! Could be anybody who knows we're here," Rykar said. "Any lord, any mercenary with enough coin...something worse, perhaps."

"Something worse?" Matt murmured, feeling a rising fear.  
"I wouldn't know. But they want us dead, and I don't think you want to be dead, eh?"

"No..."

"Then follow me," Rykar commanded. "I'll try to find a way out of here..."

"What about the others?"

"Bugger the others, it's the pendant that's important!" Rykar scowled. "They're not the targets of our pursuers. They won't be hunted for much longer."

"Do you even know where you're going!?" Matt asked, realizing that they had to move.

Rykar didn't even bother to respond; he grabbed Matt by the shoulders and guided him further down the hallway.

"I can run by myself, thanks," Matt said, throwing Rykar's hands off.

"Just stay close, we won't lose them easily."

He followed Rykar at a dead sprint, through an endless maze of dark stone hallways that seemed to grow tighter and tighter as they fled their pursuers.

_Rykar was right...this place is a labyrinth...are these all maintenance tunnels?_

Seeing as they were connected to the cistern, they appeared to be nothing more than small conduits, or even sewer lines. Thankfully, the water had been drained out long ago...if these had been used for water transport. He didn't know, and he didn't care. His only concern was getting out alive, even if his guide had no idea where they were going.

They ended up in a circular chamber with only one exit; the way they had just come through. The tunnel had become a dead end. Matt had been the first one in, powering past Rykar when he saw daylight up ahead. It was coming from a ceiling grate about sixty feet above, a dim beam of light shining down on the rocky floor. The chamber wasn't small, but it wasn't vast either, and it was rounded just like the cistern.

"Rykar...it's a dead end, we're stuck-"

Matt found himself at the pointy end of a longsword's blade. He found himself standing three feet from Rykar, separated from his guardian and guide by three feet of steel, three feet of malice, three feet of deadly weapon.

"Rykar..."

"Of course it's a dead end. I know that very well," Rykar said solemnly. "I'm sorry, Matt."

"Rykar...your sword..." Matt struggled to connect his words together, suddenly failing to understand what was happening. It was almost unreal; was this a mistake, of sorts? A ruse? A _something_?

"I know where it is. I mean for it to be there. If you'll let me talk, I will tell you why."

"Are...are you going to kill me?" Matt gasped, his stomach suddenly sinking again and his throat tightening. The clicking was back, right behind his ear.

"I do not intend to, no," Rykar said curiously, a few seconds later. He cocked his head, seeming more like a curious puppy now. "Were you expecting me to kill you?"

"You...you've got a sword, at my throat," Matt choked out, trying to remain calm and seek an exit. He knew that, at this point, with Rykar blocking the doorway, there was no way he could escape. He would need to make a diversion, or get himself closer to the door. Ever so gently, he took one tiny step to the left, trying to circle his way around the room, but Rykar was onto him.

"Eh eh eh, no, no," he berated Matt. "You stand still. I'm not going to hurt you, unless of course you try to run out on me. I swear it," Rykar promised.

"Why?"

"Why won't I hurt you? That's a bit of a silly question. Do you...want me to hurt you?" Rykar posited, smiling ever so slightly.

"Why did you pull your blade on me?"

"I'll get to that," Rykar said. "But first, hand me the pendant."

Matt did not appreciate that.

"Er...you tell me your side of the story, and then I'll hand you the pendant," he countered pathetically. To his surprise, Rykar conceded.

"Fair enough. It's not like you're going anywhere. Take a seat if you wish, I'll even lower the sword a bit if it makes you feel comfortable," Rykar offered. When Matt refused to take a seat, he shrugged.

"Alright. Well, let me be upfront and honest with you. I was never on your side."

"Side? What _side_?" Matt asked, irritated as the clicking continued. He felt like it was difficult to breath now.

"The side of man. Humankind. I never allied myself with your race, even though I am one of you," Rykar explained.

"Rykar...you're not making sense-"

"Do you realize what you've been running from? What you're fighting? Are you aware that you are fighting something?" Rykar asked, taking obvious pleasure in his game.

"I'm fighting Stanislaus Antar, and the other people who wish to take the pen-"

"Besides humans. You're fighting something that is not human at all. You've been unaware that, this entire time, you've been resisting us."

"Us?" Matt asked, more perplexed than ever. He just wished that the _stupid _clicking would go away...it was driving him mad.

"Us. Those who have been here for millennia, from genesis...well, not me myself, but we fight as one. I serve the simulation, Matt. I serve..._this_," Rykar spread his arms for dramatic effect.

"The...simulation?"

"The world. The world itself is my master, the sentience bids me to fight for it. We humans have damaged it, we have hurt it and made it afraid, and now it is fighting back. You have been fleeing from it this entire time...but _now_, we have caught you. As you can see," Rykar smiled, flashing the steel of his sword. The sunlight glinted off of the blade.

Matt struggled to understand what Rykar had just told him. Was the castellan _crazy_? All of this made about as much sense as what Herobrine had told him before, and even that was more logical than this.

"You serve the game?"

"It's not a game!" Rykar hissed. "It's evolved beyond that. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"You sound insane," Matt shook his head. He was afraid that that would anger the castellan, but it did not. He kept his calm.

"This...simulation, that you live in now, it has its own mind. It is designed to have a sentient part to it. It changes, it evolves on its own, and while it is controllable by a creator, it is like a living world. Except it can think for itself. Does that make sense?"

"Hardly," Matt grit his teeth, but Rykar continued.

"Humans are a scourge to this world. We deforest, we mine, we burn, we build, we spill each other's blood and let the earth lap it up. How would you feel if you had to witness all of that happening to you, happening to the world you controlled?" Rykar asked. Matt did not answer, but that did not slow the castellan.

"That is how _it _feels. It has suffered through the conflicts of men, witness the burning of forests and the genocide of mobs, the slaughter of human beings from this world and the other. _It _sees these things, and it hurts. Put yourself into such a position, Matt," Rykar pleaded. "_Think_."

"Rykar...you're sounding crazy! Why didn't you tell me all of this before!?"

"Because you're not one of us, Matt. Technically, you're the enemy," Rykar told him.

"You led me here-"

"To take the pendant! I could not have done it back at the Ditch, I would've been slain! I had to isolate you...get you away from the lords and the soldiers and those who try to keep the pendant safe," Rykar scowled.

"Then why didn't you just take it from Brackwood Keep then?"

"I would've been caught. I had to dispose of it, and pray that it would be found by one of our servants...and then you found it. And came straight back to Brackwood Keep," Rykar said.

"What about Herobrine?"

"He thought I was guarding the pendant. He thought he was setting better events into motion when he learned that I threw the pendant away. He thought I knew what I was doing, taking it to the Ditch," Rykar hissed. "No, no, he fooled himself-"

"You lied to him," Matt accused, the clicking beginning to drown everything else out.

"Maybe I did. Maybe I didn't. What's it to you?" Rykar scowled, now visibly unsettled.

"You lied."

"Speak sense, boy."

"You lied to him. You broke your code of honor," Matt accused, now even more threateningly.

"Fuck your honor. What is the honor of men but empty words!? My duty is to it, it has been here far longer than the pathetic statutes of men have! These castles, these _cancerous _cities, they were all built by you warlike, barbarous monsters to suit your own needs! They don't live with the world any longer, they _destroy _it! What is honor to humanity, but a false promise to be broken when the time is right!? I have honor to nature, not to flesh," Rykar began to grow angry. His sword drew closer to Matt's throat.

"You've undone the work of all of your ancestors?"

"They defiled our family name!" Rykar spat onto the cold stone. "My most ancient ancestor died trying to defend this world from the humans who were breaking it. Jens died because he believed in the simulation, and he sacrificed his life trying to right the wrongs of humanity! And my ancestors have undone _his _work, trying to _defend_ humans! And now it's time to complete the work of my greatest grandfather...he created us from nothingness, brought virtual life to us, and we are supposed to protect the simulation, not aid in its destruction!"

"This was all an elaborate ruse, then?"

"And you fell right into place," Rykar smiled.

"You deceived us all. I thought I could trust you with the pendant. You guarded it for _decades_."

"Waiting for the moment. Chaos brings with it a thousand opportunities, and when Lord Renn led his little civil war against Lady Lanos, I knew that I had my opportunity. I wouldn't have been able to run for it, but I'd be damned if I didn't get the pendant out of that castle. And then _you _came along," Rykar said.

"And you lied to me."

"Aye, I did. I wish you'd stop using that fucking word, but it's truth."

"Lying piece of-"

Rykar put his sword even closer, so close that the point of the blade made contact with Matt's skin. The latter stood stock still, afraid to move, even as the clicking grew louder and his vision began to blur.

"A man can be shit in one person's eye, and gold in another's. It's all in the eye of the beholder," Rykar said.

"You're shit to me."

"Eye of the beholder, Matt. Eye of the beholder. Now, the pendant?"

"Over my dead body," Matt spat, not sure if he was in control of his words or not. He reached his hand into his armor, parting the mail, but Rykar did not seem to have noticed.

"Now, now, let's not be uncivilized...I told you my reasoning."

"I hate your reasoning. You're a traitor to us, after all you've done in our service-"

"Not your service," Rykar reminded. "In the end, it all was service to it. Every move I made has come into my favor, yes?"

"You planned this all out...how did you know that it would happen like this?"

"There were a lot of vague details," Rykar shrugged. "I figured things would work out. I have a way of manipulating events. And remember, I am not alone. I have the entire world on my side. What do you have?"

Matt was silenced by this question. Rykar seemed satisfied.

"Now, for our business. The pendant, if you will?"

Matt's hand reached for the chain that felt ever tighter around his neck, beginning to pry it from his flesh.

"That's it...nice and slowly. Just hand it over, and you can go. I give you my word, Matt," Rykar promised.

That brought Matt to pause.

"Your word?"

"On my honor."

"Your honor is null," Matt said, letting his hand back down. He reached back inside his armor again, slowly.

"What did you say?"

"You've slighted your honor before. No...you have no honor! You've broken your oaths so many times-"

"You better hold your tongue, boy," Rykar warned, now threateningly.

"No. You're a liar, and I don't trust you. You've broken promises before, what's going to stop you now-"

"I said hold your damn tongue!" Rykar roared, raising his blade as if to strike. Matt had no idea whether he intended to bring the strike down or not, but he was not going to give Rykar the chance. His hand shot out of his armor.

The revolver roared, the force of the blast knocking Matt's arm back. Rykar's sword hung in mid-air, the steel glinting in the sunlight. For a moment, his face burned with anger, and then sudden remorse. He glanced down at the weeping crimson puncture in his stomach, before stumbling aside, dropping his sword and instantly letting his hands fall to his wound.

Matt took his chance to run. He ran, and he never looked back. He couldn't bring himself to look back, not at the man who had betrayed everything he had worked for. Even Rykar's desperate cries, gibberish to his ears, would not summon him back. He ran, praying that nothing would catch him.

Nothing did.


	26. Unrest in the Dark

**Hello internet! Exb here!  
I see the twist was at least slightly surprising. That is very good! I was hoping that it would end up being unexpected, and I see at least a few people caught on to Rykar's change in behavior and suspected that. And thank you for all of the reviews! Everyone who's reviewed so far, I thank you and welcome your praise, critique, and just general comment!**

**REVIEW ANSWERS:**

**woohooman14: Hehe. A little surprise in there, just to shake things up. And I don't believe I mentioned extra bullets...**

**HPE24: I do remember saying Matt snuck the gun when they entered Iceport, because he's paranoid like that :P Served him pretty well, in the end!**

**AMinecraftMaster: In terms of gore, I don't think it's quite as bad, because there is less fighting than there is in Gone. Not that there's less action, but there's less combat.**

**BfheadGamer: I don't mind Cymander, myself. He's not evil, he just has his own agenda. Plus, he found a new use for a quill.**

**VerinSedai: Your comments and reviews are always welcome! I do not request that you review, nor do I desire that you don't. It's all up to you! Thank you very much for doing so, though!**

**Enderchild 080: Yay, another person who admires Cymander! Glad to hear it!**

**VVVVV**

A solemn quiet had settled upon the Ditch.

Even the miners, who were usually a boisterous and rowdy lot come Friday, were solemn and hushed, drowning their sorrows in the bitter ale that the mine's local tavern brewed. It was heavy with alcohol and smelled terrible, and most of the younger miners avoided it for that reason. The older ones or the alcoholics were able to stomach it, and a few even enjoyed the fiery bite.

"Do you think he made the right choice?" the scrawny demolitions man, Stewart asked. The mining team of youths, five of them, sat at their own table, silent and contemplative. None of them had ordered drinks or food; they had neither the money, nor the appetite.

Two weeks ago, Lord Walker had surrendered the Ditch to Stanislaus Antar's forces. In a very formal ceremony, he removed his nobleman's badge and handed the deed to the fortress over to Antar himself, who took the badge as well. The Ditch had officially been surrendered to Antar.

The presence he had left was minimal, but the soldiers were intimidating, and the garrison numbered at least a thousand. It was only a small chunk of Antar's army, but the Ditch had lost nearly 1/4th of its force during the most recent battle, and most of the guardsmen were in no shape to fight. A rebellion seemed very unlikely, even if Antar's main army was now marching east.

"He wouldn't have stood a chance against Antar, if that's what you asked," Parker replied.

"I was asking what you thought."

"Damn what I thought. It's not my place to challenge my lord's decision-"

"So you oppose him, then?" Stewart pressed.

"I...yes, I do," Parker admitted. "I don't like to say it..."

"It's not like anybody's going to arrest you," a wiry boy of nineteen, Adrian, threw in. "The guards could care less. All they want is ale and food and a warm bed, and maybe some girl to bed."

"They aren't bedding me, if that's what they want," Aleesha muttered, tapping her foot on the table.

"He left behind thieves and lowborn scum, not soldiers," the digger Franz complained. "All of the professional men went east. We're garrisoned by men from the bottom of Antar's barrel."

"Why would he leave good men behind on guard duty? Of course he's going to have the scraps garrison us," Adrian said.

"We're alive, that's something to be glad for," Parker spoke, stopping the argument before it began. In their little mining group, he was the peacemaker; the other boys were reckless and rash, but Parker was the oldest, almost twenty-five, and he possessed more sense than any of them. He was their squad leader, and they respected him even if they _were _rash.

Aleesha, once the holier-than-thou overseer's pet, was now somewhat humbled and far more quiet. Ever since Antar's men had arrested Overseer Payne and replaced him with one of their own to watch mining operations, _everybody _had become more quiet and less open, but especially Aleesha. Gone were her days of domineering over the lesser workers and receiving special treatment from the Overseer; she was humbled now that Payne had departed, and far more tolerable now.

"Did Captain Loyhrs announce a date for the next meeting?"

"He's not a Captain anymore," Franz was quick to correct, before Parker hushed him and let Stewart continue.  
"Well, Coulter said that Darius had given him some information and meeting plans...I dunno when they're organizing another meetup," he continued, more quietly. None of the other miners seemed to have heard, however.

Several days ago, the first signs of unrest had rippled in the darkness of the lower levels of the Ditch; Coulter, one of the richer merchants of the fortress, had secretly assembled a band of about twenty upset citizens, who had no tolerance for occupation, and by the next day all of Parker's squad had joined up. The group had swelled to nearly seventy members, and all across the city secret groups of anti-occupationists had formed, all under the loose command of the ex-Guard Captain, Darius Loyhrs.  
All of that, within two weeks. And their unrest was growing.

"If Coulter's planning something, we'll know. His runners do their job well," Adrian said.

"We've had three meetings in the past five days...what else do we have to discuss?" Franz asked.

"There's action to be taken. Already, secret stockpiles of weapons are being raised and some of the merchants have gotten down to bribing occupation guardsmen-"

"It'll never work, you realize? They're trained soldiers, and we're peasants. How do you expect to overthrow a trained guard force?" Franz posited, more loudly.

"You never were much for this, were you Franz?" Adrian asked.

"Why the hell did you even join in the first place?" Stewart chimed in. Parker looked quite uncomfortable now that there was an argument brewing, and Aleesha looked almost bored.

"Because...I dunno, because you all joined!" Franz snapped. Parker tried to assuage him, but it did little good.

"You joined because we did?"

"Yes, I felt like if I didn't...I wouldn't be respected? I dunno," Franz threw his hands up, exasperated.

"We weren't trying to pressure you," Parker attempted to assuage him again.

"No, man. I know you're not one of them, you didn't have to join us," Stewart added.

"I felt pressured, okay? I wanted to...I dunno, fit in!"

That elicited a moment of silence.

"You joined us...because you wanted to _fit in_?" Adrian asked, suddenly surprised. "What is this, high school again? Cliques and all that shit?"

"Well, you guys certainly made it seem like I would be excluded!" Franz accused.

"Since when did we ever say that?" Adrian wondered aloud.

"Enough, gentlemen-"

"I could read your actions, the way you spoke, the first day you considered joining!"

"Oh, for god's sake, Franz, I never-"

"ENOUGH!"

Parker slammed his fist down on the table, so hard that it elicited a crack from the wood and drew the attention of all the other bar goers, those who had not yet noticed the heated debate. Parker did not notice all of the eyes on him.

"Nobody forces anyone to do something. Franz, if you want no part of this, you don't have to take part," Parker announced. He hoped that would bring an end to the senseless bickering. It did, to some extent.

"I'll go anyway," Franz pouted, and he stood out and stomped out of the bar. Stewart chuckled, and Adrian muttered something along the lines of "Stubborn fool...", but Parker paid no mind to either. Franz would be back to normal in a little while, once he forgot about the argument. He could be quite childish sometimes.

"Well, I'm going to see if Mart's got any new supplies coming in. I promised I'd help him organize things for Coulter," Stewart announced. The demoman was quite involved in the secret effort; ever since the day Leon had surrendered, he had been at the forefront of the operation, organizing and running errands and helping Coulter with meetings. He was a dedicated soldier.

"It's a shame, really. Franz is pretty nice sometimes, but he can be a real _kid_," Adrian complained as Stewart left.

"You two need to get along better," Parker warned.

"I try."

"You try, but not hard enough. He's still one of us, even if he annoys you," Parker said. "I don't think you treat him with enough respect."

"He should try treating _me _with respect," Adrian snorted.

"He's still young. He's only seventeen," Parker warned.

"Age doesn't matter. He needs to get along with us, else when the time comes, he's going to be a liability instead of an asset."

One of the servingmen came over and the three finally ordered; they were getting thirsty anyway, and all of them received mugs of ale.

"I sorta miss Kellan. He wasn't half bad, for a newbie," Adrian thought aloud, sipping his ale. "He ran off with Matt and that castellan, didn't he?"

"He stowed away with them, aye," Parker replied. "Been gone for a week now."

"I miss Matt too," Aleesha sighed, drinking her ale slowly.

"Only because you wanted to fuck him," Adrian snorted, and received a painful punch to the shoulder for his joke. Parker said nothing; they weren't fighting, just playing around.

"Watch that dirty mouth of yours," Aleesha warned, returning to her drink.

"Everyone knows how much you liked him," Adrian taunted, smiling.

"Well, he was kinda cute..."

"See, I knew it!" Adrian laughed, and received another punch for that.

"You two, I swear," Parker chuckled, downing the rest of his drink.

"Well, I've had enough of the two of you for one evening," Aleesha laughed. "I...ah, damnit. The meeting. I'll have to call in sick, I guess."  
"Sick of me, darling?" Adrian taunted.

"Watch your mouth before I beat your head in with this mug," Aleesha warned him, smiling deviously. She bid the two men goodnight before departing the tavern, leaving her mug on the table.

"Do you think they're still alive?" Adrian asked, as the bar began to empty out.

"Matt and Kellan?"

"Yeah."

"They've only been gone two weeks. I'd be surprised if they'd reached New Connaught yet," Parker said. "They've got a _long _ways to go."

"I've never even heard of Iceport," Adrian snorted derisively.

"An old city."

"It's a myth-"

"Yes, they're journeying for an entire month just to find a myth. I swear Adrian, half of your skull is full of hot air," Parker laughed.

"Maybe. You're not the first one to tell me that," he took the joke well, shrugging it off.

The two men were among the last to leave the bar; there were a few diehard patrons, some of the older miners, who would remain there most of the night, but all of the others had had their meal and drink and were clearing out, heading home for the night. The normally jovial atmosphere had been dispersed by the stench of occupation.

They had no idea where the meeting was taking place, but one of the guards that was posted on the bridge over to the other side was one of the men that Coulter had bribed. He recognized Parker immediately, but gave no sign of it other than a nod.

"Evening, sir," Parker saluted him.  
"Tannery. Back room. Get a move on," was all that the guard said. His source was trustworthy, Parker knew; he had been paid off with plenty of coin.

The Ditch's tannery resided on the same level as the mine's tavern, which wasn't _technically _a level of the city. But it was named "Level Five" by those who occupied it during the day and night. Even though it had strong connections to the quarries and mines, it was still far above those deep, sweltering pits dug down into the hard stone. It was still the lowest level of the city, and only four elevators allowed access. On a busy day, traffic was unbearably slow.

Much of the city's industry resided on the so-called "Fifth Level", including the smithies and the main forge. The tannery was located amongst multiple stockyards full of raw stone and clay; due to the stone roof hanging over the entire level, the smell didn't travel very far, but the odor was ripe and foul when they finally did get to smell it.

"God, why the tannery?" Adrian complained, wrinkling his nose. "Pure smells like-"

"Yeah, we know. It won't be long, just breathe through your mouth, and stop complaining," Parker scoffed, trying not to sniff the foul air himself. "It's bad enough I have to suffer through this stench, I don't want to have to suffer through you..."

The two men took deep breaths with their mouths and headed into the tannery, closing the heavy wooden door shut behind them. The street was completely empty; at this time of evening, nobody would be going outside, especially not with the current political climate.

Parker was not familiar with the tannery, but there was no need to navigate throughout the building; as soon as they entered the door, a young man in boiled leather armor attending the door pointed them down a hallway, where a door was half open, admitting them to a large, rectangular room with a conference table sitting right in the middle.

Every chair was already occupied; they had to find Stewart and Franz and stand by the two men, who were relegated to the back half of the room with the other late arrivals.

"We're just about to start," Stewart informed them as they shouldered their way past two burly older men. Despite the crowd, the room was fairly quiet; nobody wanted to draw undesired attention to themselves.

"Oh, so we're not late?"

"No. Did you bring Aleesha?"

"Nah, she went on home," Adrian shook his head. "She just didn't want to come."

"Blast her. It's her duty to come and join us," Stewart cursed, but he silenced himself when a fist beat on the wooden table. It was the call to order for the meeting; a gavel was not necessary. The hard hammer of a fist was enough to bring order to the group of one hundred or so firebrands.

"Thank you, gentlemen...and ladies...for attending me tonight. I apologize for the smell, dog shit does have a notoriously...well..._foul _odor," Coulter spoke, as smooth as ever. He was quite the smooth talker; his tongue was oily, and his wit was quick. In order to succeed in the world of business, you had to have such traits, and Coulter had mastered his art.

"Eh, you owe us for this, you lout!" someone piped up jokingly, and he was met with a chorus of laughs. Some of the men were definitely drunk.

"Come now, I won't keep you for long. Bear with me here, and we'll get this done."

There was a brief moment of silence; none of the boys could see what Coulter was doing, but they were able to hear his voice perfectly well in the crowded chamber.

"This marks...almost the fifteenth day of occupation, and already we've got weapons stashed and guards bribed and safehouses established. I would just like to thank each and every one of you for the contributions you have put forth in such a small amount of time. Two weeks isn't much for a growing rebellion, and while I know that we're slowly attracting more attention, we've still got a ways to go. But it's time to celebrate our milestone!"

A cheer rose up, not a boisterous and rowdy one but something contained, yet still very excited.

_Progress is progress. We may still reside under Antar's boot, but we're slowly lifting it off our backs. And he doesn't even know it yet_.

"Major business still needs to be accomplished, of course..."

Parker noticed that Franz was edging his way away from their group, pushing through the crowd of men and staying close to the wall.

_He's uncomfortable. He wants out...maybe he wasn't cut out for this stuff in the end._

Against his better judgment, Parker decided to follow him, slipping past Stewart as he slowly pursued the younger lad. He had to jostle people as he kept after Franz, who had no idea that he was being followed. A few of the men cursed them and one asked where they were going, but the sudden upheaval was drowned out by a chorus of laughter from the other side of the room coupled with Coulter attempting to talk over them.

_Come on, Franz...where do you think you're going?_

He was almost to the door, pushing past two ladies who couldn't be older than sixteen. Before they could recover from being jostled by Franz, Parker slipped behind them, continuing his pursuit of the younger boy. Both of them left the room unnoticed; as Coulter swore loudly and another gale of laughter erupted from some of the more tipsy attendees, Franz quietly vacated the conference room, drawing the attention of only a lone man who awoke from dozing against the wall. Several people noticed Parker follow his target out the door, but nobody moved to stop him or accost him.

"Franz!" Parker whispered hoarsely, as he left the heat of the crowded, stuffy room. The young boy looked almost surprised to see someone pursuing him; he had not expected anybody to attempt to arrest him on his way out.

"P-Parker? I...was just going out for-"

"I can tell that you're leaving. Where are you going?" Parker asked, able to see right through his ill-fitting disguise.

"Just going ou-"

"You're not. I know you're not." Parker was very firm in his proclamation, and Franz did not try to fool him any further.

"I'm sorry, so sorry...I had to..."

"Sorry about what?" Parker asked, just as suspicious as he was surprised. He wasn't sure what to expect, but it hit him like a tsunami.

The door to the tannery burst open, followed by a flood of soldiers armed in lobstered mail and boiled leather, carrying spears, hammers, and all bearing the insignia of Stanislaus Antar.

Franz disappeared within the mass of armored men, and Parker was too shocked to move. He stood there, frozen in terror and stunned by the shock, before a mailed fist hit him in the cheek and hurled him against the wall, arresting him quite violently.

Parker did not attempt to resist-as he was unarmed, it would do him no good. He could feel his hands being roughly forced behind his back, his face pressed against the cold wooden walls of the tannery. He saw Franz once more before the boy disappeared into the crowd again; the look he gave the former was nothing but vile disgust. An upheaval had begun in the adjoining room, as Antar's guards began to file into the conference chamber and attempt to seize every single person. It would be foolish for anyone to resist; if people were armed, they would only be lightly equipped, and would be no match for the heavily armed guardsmen.

Parker heard something about "In the name of the rightful King, His Grace Stanislaus Antar, First of his Name...", but the rest was cut off as he was hurriedly shuffled out of the tannery, without any questions asked. He was unable to see Franz again; if he had encountered the traitor, he might have beaten the young man to death. It was probably better that he had lost track of him in the crowd of guardsmen.

VVVVV

Matt could finally see the sun. Not just sunlight filtering in from above, the real deal, hovering above him so far away.

Using brute strength, he forced himself up out of the manhole, grabbing onto the upper ledge and pulling himself up. The top two rungs of the ladder were missing, therefore he was not able to climb all the way up. But, as exhausted as he was, he made do, and soon found himself laying on his back, his gaze directed up to the scudding clouds and the hazy light of the sun.

_He turned on me..._

Rykar was probably dead by now. The bullet had gone through his stomach, and the last Matt had seen of him was not promising.

_I killed him...but...he turned on me._

The words were not convincing. He was convicting himself of murder, even though he knew that Rykar would have killed him had the opportunity presented itself.

If the situation permitted it, Matt would've curled up in a ball and cried himself to sleep, out on that frozen tundra. Having lost his closest friend, traveled endlessly for nearly a month, shot his guardian to death and lost Royce and Kellan, he had reached his breaking point. He wanted to enter the security of his arms, curl up and let the pain empty itself through his tear ducts.

But the situation would not permit it.

He was being hunted.

They were not far behind, no. Whatever else Rykar had brought with him to spring this "trap" of his, they were pursuing Matt. Still down in the tunnels of the Iceport citadel, yes, but it would not take them long to pick up on his trail. For all Matt knew, he was the only one of the four left alive. Rykar was definitely dead (almost certainly, anyway), and Kellan and Royce were missing down there, possibly dead as well.

Matt forced himself to rise, despite the throbbing desire to lay down and just shut the world out. He had to run, he had to survive, and the pendant needed to stay out of the hands of his enemy. It was still clicking at him, that incessant noise that was partially drowned out by the howling of the fierce icy winds that scoured the cold tundra of Iceport.

He just barely heard the footsteps. He thought it was in his head, the soft crunching of snow. But as it grew louder, he realized that somebody was behind him. Instinct led him to draw the revolver out again, and he spun around, prepared to fire, only to face a rather terrified and shocked Kellan.

_It's only Kellan...just him..._

"Are you...going to shoot?" Kellan's first reaction was. His voice was wavery, as if he really was doubtful about Matt's intentions.

"No...no, Kellan, I'm not..."

"Sorry, you looked like-"

"I thought you were trying to attack me. Didn't know it was you," Matt sighed, holstering the revolver again.

"Matt..."

"We fucked up, yeah." Matt was the first to admit it. Standing there, battered by wind and snow, he was the first to admit that they had failed.

"It's not your fault-"

"No, but does that matter? Rykar's dead."

"He's...dead?" Kellan asked, as if it wasn't clear the first time. "Did they get him?"

"Damnit...I shot him," Matt answered bluntly, feeling the urge to curl up again. "I...shot him."

"You...shot him?" Kellan repeated.

"He turned on me."

"That...doesn't make sense-" Kellan tried to form a coherent sentence, but he lost his words as the wind howled even stronger.

"I'll explain it to you later. We need to get to some shelter..."

"We can stay at the bakery back where the supplies are," Kellan suggested matter-of-factly.

"No...we need to get out of the city."

"But-"

"They'll find us if we stay. We need to get out of the city. Head back, head south, head north, anywhere," Matt said. "Grab our stuff and go."

"What about Royce?"

That was enough to give Matt pause for only a small moment. He had not thought about the swordsman...what if he was still alive?

_Are we just going to leave him behind? He won't stand a chance..._

"You can't just leave him behind..."

"We have to, Kellan. It's the only option," Matt sighed, knowing that he had no other choice. Kellan seemed to realize that as well.

"Well...I suppose...but that means it's just the two of us. We have no idea where we're going," Kellan protested briefly, but faltered.

"Anywhere is better than here. We need to get out of the city, and find some shelter," Matt told him.

"Are we grabbing the horses?" Kellan asked as Matt began to find his way back in the general direction of the bakery, which was marked by the two towers denoting the entrance gate they had come through.

"We're grabbing everything we can carry, everything the horses can carry. We need all of the supplies we can get."

Matt took one look back at the towering citadel of Iceport, knowing that deep in his heart he had failed.

The pendant still hung upon his neck, almost tauntingly so as it dangled down, the cold pearl making contact with his cold flesh and almost burning. He had failed.

He took one look back at the Citadel, tried to forget Royce and Rykar, and began to trudge off, fighting the wind as he and Kellan walked.


	27. A Blade in the Dark

**Hello, internet! Exb here!**

**A few things.**

**First of all, I'm sorry that updates are going to be slowing down a bit. Chapters are getting a bit bigger for a short while, so my updating will be slower. It'll just be about five or six days in between each update, provided I get a lot of work done!**

**Second thing, I will be on vacation for a week starting this next day. I won't be doing much writing, but hopefully I'll get a full chapter done while I'm not going sightseeing. I will try!**

**Third thing is something that **_**really **_**pissed me off. So, some of you may have noticed that there's been several stories in the archive where authors detail their lives in the format of a story, claiming it to be related to Minecraft. Well, as much as I dislike this, I won't stop them, even if I disapprove. But today, someone asked me to do the same. I will not name this person, or paste his PM for privacy reasons, but I was asked to tell about my life in a story.**

…

**You know who you are, assclown. If you **_**want **_**to know more about me, go take a look at my bloody profile, **_**that's what it's there for**_**. Maybe you're new, or maybe you're just completely lost in this website, but I think it's quite obvious that my profile has everything you need to know about me. I'm not going to write a goddamn story because it's already written down in my profile. And you don't go asking people to tell you about their life, asshat. **

**Also, against the rules, but the concept of rules evades the grasp of so many people I'm not even going to bother. Let's just get on with the next chapter and I hope I haven't offended anybody by trying to point out that I have a profile.**

**VVVVV**

It was strange, how the biomes worked.

Up here, farther to the northeast, the layout of the biomes and climes was almost haphazard, as if someone had rolled a dice to decide where to place each environment. The chilly snows of Iceport had been exchanged for a warm, temperate forest, which was welcome. Their situation couldn't be worse, however.

Matt had no idea where he was going; in his semi-delirious state, he only knew that he had to flee his hunters. He had narrowly escaped their grasp at Iceport, and without Rykar or Royce or even a compass, he had no idea where he was going. He tried to follow the sun, but when it was cloudy or when fog rolled in he quickly became lost. Orientation was difficult without any sort of aid.

His delirium didn't help, either.

The pendant still held sway over him; it was a strange phenomenon, really. It felt like he was being guided _away _from Iceport; at times he felt like he had more energy, despite his mind being cloudy and languid. Perhaps it did not want to fall into the hands of its pursuers? It obviously wasn't leading Matt anywhere special, but it felt like it was trying to rush him away from Iceport, away from the hunters who would surely pick up the trail soon enough.

Twelve days after Rykar's death, and after their sudden flight from Iceport, they found themselves at a forest clearing, a small area sheltered by large willows and oaks that provided them security and safety. It was close to the game trail that served as road, yet far away enough that any pursuers would almost certainly walk right on by. Or at least Matt hoped.

It was only the two of them now; Matt had made the difficult choice to abandon Royce back at Iceport, not knowing whether he was alive or dead. It made no difference. It would have been futile to re-enter that damned labyrinth and search for him, while it was crawling with...those _things_.

While Kellan set up a pitiful fire with logs and tinder, Matt unpacked one of their few saddlebags and took out some rations of beef jerky. Their stored food was running low; Kellan had found a wounded rabbit a few days back and finished it off, and that had provided food for two days. But now they were left with the beef jerky, some cheese, and salt cod. So far, they hadn't been able to find any berry bushes or mushrooms for stew.

"How many days has it been now?" Kellan inquired when the fire was catching, as he took his share of jerky.

"Twelve."

"Only twelve?"

"Does it seem like more?" Matt asked, glumly gnawing on his meat.

"Well...every day goes by so damn slow...it feels like we've been out here for months," Kellan complained.

"Mmhm."

"And do we have any idea where we're going?" Kellan asked.

"West."

"West, huh? Is that all you can tell me?" he said.

"I've been trying to follow the sun west. West is civilization, people, _food_. There's nothing in any other direction except for wilderness, endless wilderness," Matt told him.

"Did you see a map?" Kellan inquired suspiciously.

"Well...no. But I don't want to wander off aimlessly. I'd rather at least go west, back towards home," Matt defended his logic. Apparently Kellan was satisfied with that; he returned to eating his beef in peace, sitting rather close to the low fire.

The silence gave Matt time to think. Thinking time was bad for him.

His thoughts always wandered to the pendant; like a river, they meandered through empty void lands, flowing aimlessly until they caught sight of that pearl, and damn it all, once they were fixated on that single thought they would not detach from it. With only the sound of the blazing campfire to distract him, Matt's mind quickly went to the necklace, which he began to fondle gently in his hands, bringing it closer to his face for examination. It tortured him.

The numbers tormented him as well, to a lesser degree. The part of his mind that was not blindly fixated on such a destructive object kept trying to puzzle out the numbers that were hidden inside, unable to translate the fuzzy figures into actual numbers.

But it was the pendant itself that drew the most of his attention. He couldn't pry his mind away from that. Whenever there was silence, whenever he had moments to himself, he would play with the pendant, tossing it from palm to palm, considering it and letting the clicking behind his ear become a rhythm within his brain, pounding incessantly every second, like the beat of a marching drum. It was such a dangerously mesmerizing thing.

And it almost snared him, like a trap. Suddenly, he heard the whispers again. No more audible, but present, inside of his head, and everywhere around him.

Those nameless sounds bid him to hold onto the pendant, bid him to look into its depths. And for a moment, he obeyed. He felt a sudden surge of energy within him, as the whispers began to flood his mind, and as his grip tightened around the pearl and he began to shake violently, something grabbed him.

It was Kellan, only Kellan, grabbing him roughly by the shoulders and shaking him violently. The whispers imploded in a second, the clicking stopped, and Matt suddenly found himself sweating buckets, shaking uncontrollably, and on the verge of blacking out. Kellan shook him again, and the world returned to normal. He hadn't realized that his vision had become foggy; the other thing that had mattered at the time was the necklace.

"Damnit, Matt! Damnit!" Kellan repeated over and over again, roughing him up until Matt raised a shaky hand and placed it gently on Kellan's shoulder.

"K-I'm okay, I'm alright..."

"Damnit, what did Rykar tell you?" Kellan scowled, looking both frightened and angry. "He told you-"

"I know...I'm sorry, I didn't mean to...it...it..."

"You're letting it take you over, Matt," Kellan warned him. "You can't let it do that. You can't let that..._thing _control your mind!"

"It's so hard to fight it..." Matt stuttered, now back in control of his body. He was lying on the ground, his back on dead leaves and loose twigs.

"You have to, Matt. Remember, you have to!" Kellan told him. "Don't listen to the whispers!"

Kellan left it at that. He figured that the point had hit home, as Matt forced himself to rise up, choking back sickening bile. The pendant was normal again, and the clicking had returned, just loud enough to hear over ambient noise. It wasn't disgusting anymore; it almost felt comforting.

_What is this doing to my head...I can't take it any longer!_

Matt just wanted to leave the pendant behind, but he knew he couldn't. There was no way he could just throw it away. And even if he wanted to...he had a feeling that something would possess him to do otherwise. It seemed to have a mind of its own, after all...

"I...need to take it off," Matt declared quietly.

"Rykar said to keep it on," Kellan said solemnly.

"I need to..."

"Damnit, Matt! Clear your head! Stop letting it overtake you!"

"It's not overtaking me, I want to take it off," Matt whispered, as Kellan grabbed him by the shoulders again. He did not shake him, but rather just held on firmly.

"You cannot take it off, under any circumstances. Not until we can break it," Kellan told him, locking eyes firmly. For a moment, Matt wanted to just grab the necklace and fling it aside, in a fit of rage. But he knew that would do little to benefit him. He sighed, slumped over, and fell back against the ground, feeling weightless and helpless. Kellan let him fall.

"Get some sleep, Matt. You could use some rest, a week's worth of riding has done quite a number on you."

Matt didn't fight him. He didn't resist; all he wanted was sleep, now. He was feeling worthless enough to just lie there on the bed of leaves, close to the pitiful fire, and close his eyes.

He had failed his one duty; the pendant remained whole, he had never reached the Coldforge in Iceport. It felt terrible, to fail something so important. He wanted to go back, but there was no turning back now. Twelve days out, and with hunters on their tail, they had only one direction to go, and that was away.

VVVVV

For a military camp, it was almost dreadfully quiet.

Sora hated that kind of silence. It gave her time to think, and reflection time was always torturous to her. When she picked up her hand mirror and looked into it, she saw not the face of a teenage girl, but a thousand roiling emotions that dealt blows every time she stared back into those eyes.

_You're nothing to them_.

They were everywhere; 160,000 soldiers and nearly as many retainers, slaves and camp followers, all amassed in one huge camp, a vast tent city residing on the plains of the Southrun. The army moved incredibly slowly; often they made less than ten miles a day before they had to pitch tents again, and the camp was so spread out it would take a runner twenty minutes to reach one end from the other.

_You're nothing to any of them. Look at yourself._

In the center of the vast camp the Archon had set up his massive tent, a construction so huge that it could fit an entire house and then a few outbuildings inside of it. And this wasn't his command tent; this was his personal tent, where he slept and lived while on the march. While it certainly was not a palace, it had most of the luxuries of home, just away from home. Sora herself was one of those luxuries available to Sykardos.

_You're nothing to him, nothing to any of them. You're a tool, to be used and set aside when they're done_.

They didn't call her nasty names often, but she knew that's what they thought of her. She could see it in the eyes of the men and the Archon himself, those words on the tips of their tongues.

_Whore. Slut. Hussy. Tramp. Harlot._

It's not like she had any choice in the matter. There was no alternative to her life; she existed simply to please the Archon of Ais Kleisardathos. She was a tool for him; when he had his ten minutes with her, he cast her aside and let her go back to her reflection, go back to the mirror that created such self-hate.

_Whore_.

That's all she saw herself as these days. Even back at the palace in Ais Kleisardathos, she had been a person, having her own private life within the confines of the keep and friends to speak to. Now, on the march, she was confined to a tent with Marceline, the only other girl to be serving the Archon personally. Every other girl had been distributed to the captains, the commanders, or, if they were truly unlucky, the hoplites, the common soldiers of Sykardos' army.

Marceline was really the only comfort left, and even she was growing exhausted. Each time she returned from the Archon's tent, her hair would be mussed and she would be bruised and she looked like hell. She'd either go straight to bed or she'd take a warm bath, and rarely did she have time for pleasant conversation.

Sora threw her mirror down in disgust, hating the face that stared back at her. It was the face of a slut, a girl who had given herself to another man time and again.

_No, forced into another man's power. It's different._

Sometimes she wanted to believe that, but it was a hopeless cause. Every time she was led to the Archon's bed, any optimistic beliefs deserted her and she hated herself, from start to finish and even after.

It would soon be time for Marceline to come back, anyway; five minutes ago, two hoplites had come and escorted her out of the tent, right after the Archon's dinner. That was what had given her the silence and privacy she needed to reflect; now that the mirror was out of her reach, she had only to wait calmly until her turn arrived. Another fifteen or so minutes, and it would be time.

But, to her surprise, Marceline came back far earlier than she imagined. Not a minute after she had tossed the mirror aside, the French courtesan came back into the tent, spreading the folds with her hands.

"Archon's requested you," she said, her nasally accent doing little to mask her frustration. "He sent me back _just _to retrieve you."

"He...wants...m-me? Did he f-finish with you?" Sora stammered, her heart suddenly beating faster.

"He never even took me, that _salaud_," Marceline hissed. "He's drunk, angry, and he called for you, _ma cheri_. You'd best go."

"But...I thought you were going to-"

"I told you, he rejected me! Damn that drunken wretch, he's like a roller coaster tonight," Marceline cursed, removing her dirty undergarments and replacing them with somewhat clean clothes.

"I'm not ready..."

"But he is. You keep him waiting, he'll have the guards come in here and drag you off," Marceline warned. Noticing that she came off a bit harsh, she gently placed her hand upon the younger girl's chin and lifted her head up, bringing their eyes to meet.

"You'll do fine, Sora. I promise you, you'll be okay."

She tried to smile, as empty as the promise was. It did little good.

This wasn't any usual calling; the Archon never rejected a visitation, even if he had been drinking. For him to reject Marceline, and then call upon Sora, was incredibly unusual. The bizarre situation was frightening, and Sora found herself shaking as she was led to the Archon's tent by the hoplites waiting outside.

The camp was quieter than usual, befitting the mood. Sora suddenly found herself panicking inside, but the two hoplites were gripping her arms tightly, and there was nothing she could do but let herself be led along and choke back the bile that was beginning to rise within her throat.

_Don't let them know how you feel. Besides, would they care at all?_

_You're nothing to them, remember?  
Just a tool._

They took her up to the command tent, which was guarded by two of the Xonos' own bodyguards. Mallistron was a harder, stricter man than the Archon, and far crueler; his bodyguards had been whipped into shape over the course of eight years, trained under extreme conditions and honed until they were an expert force of fighting men. They were unusually brutal and cold, and made even the most vulgar and rude of the common hoplites seem amicable by comparison.

"You bringing another bitch in?" one of them sneered when they saw Sora approach. She cast her eyes to the grass to avoid looking at their eyes, those harsh pupils staring out from inside plumed half-helms. "I don't think the Archon will appreciate this one any more than he did the last."

"He asked for her personally," one of the escorting hoplites retorted. "Were you not here?"

"We just switched guards, damnit. I didn't hear any of that. Well, bring her in, then...but if he refuses her, don't expect me to haul her ass back," he spat, and parted the flaps of the tent.

The hoplites shoved Sora in and closed the tent flaps behind her. The last thing she heard was one of them making a filthy joke and the other one laughing before she was all alone inside of the massive command tent. Ever so carefully, she walked forward, slow and deliberate, her chest tight with fear. Fear of what, she could not rightly say, for she did not know.

"Soooo...they finally sent for you? Took 'em...ugh..._damn _long enough," she heard someone slur, and then realized that was she facing the Archon's massive bed, which had been moved to the far back of the tent, directly in line of the door. Previously, it had been in a more secluded location.

"My lord..."

"Get me some damn wine. The serving girls all got kicked out, and I'm out of the bloody stuff," the Archon demanded. He was not even facing her, but facing the wall of the tent, covered in heavy woolen blankets and completely naked underneath. Several empty jars of wine lay scattered on the ground beside his bed.

"Of...course, my lord," Sora managed to stammer, keeping herself under control. She refilled one of the vessels from an even larger jar, and brought it to him. He slowly accepted the jar and brought it to his lips, letting it spill down his chin and onto his chest.

The Archon was not a _fat _man, necessarily; he was bulky, but he was also muscular and pretty physically fit. He was not fat, and he was not thin; in between, but quite unhealthy due to the lifestyle that he lived.

"Take a seat, if you will," the Archon spoke, after he had finished gulping down the jar of wine.

"My lord?"

"_Take a seat_," he repeated, and Sora relegated herself to a small divan at the foot of the bed.

"You don't need those clothes," the Archon told her, and Sora did as she was commanded, going through the motions slowly like she had done a thousand times before.

_You're nothing but a tool. Time to act like one_.

The hate was back.

But as she approached his bed, he told her once more, "SIt."

"I'm...sorry...my lord-"

"What part of 'sit' don't you understand, damnit? _SIT!_" the Archon commanded, rising from the bed only slightly. When Sora returned to her place on the divan, he lay back down again, calmly.

"I don't want you in bed. I just...I dunno, want you. Besides for serving wine," he snarled, looking like a giant lump of flesh lying on the bed.

"My lord? I do not under-"

"You know, for company. I dunno why, I just wanted some damn company," the Archon said. "I don't know why, don't ask me!"

Sora watched as he rolled over to reach for the wine himself, and failed completely. She did not rise to get it for him; he just rolled back over in bed and decided it was not worth it.

"I've had...quite a bit to drink tonight, as you can, ah, see," the Archon mumbled nonchalantly. "I'll have some more...soon..."

"Of course, my lord," Sora answered blankly, sitting on the divan with nothing but apprehension in her head. She felt so tense, the slightest bit of movement from the drunk Archon caused her to jump a bit. She was waiting for him to give her a command.

"I wanted you in here because...I wanted you in here. Does that make sense?"

Sora was obliged to answer clearly and politely. If she spoke out of turn, she would be beaten. That had happened to other girls before her.

"Well, I just wanted some pleasant company. Fucking you lot is fun, but, ah, doesn't make for...*hic*...pleasant company, not for talking purposes, ah, noooo..."

His speech was audible, but slurred, and Sora just made herself nod in agreement to everything he said. He probably wasn't even paying attention to her anyway; all she had to do was answer "yes" or "no", depending on the situation, and keep him assuaged.

"So, I'll converse with you, and, then, you be on your merry way...as long as you get me some more w-wine, of course," he slurred. She obeyed, and sat by his bedside where he could see her. He looked half-asleep, his eyelids fluttering open and closed constantly and his mouth half agape when he was not talking.

"I apologize for not...alerting you ahead of time that...I would be requiring different services," he said. Sora nodded, and made a mistake.

She spoke out of turn. "That's okay," was all she said, but it was enough.

The Archon's eyes flew wide open, and he suddenly sat up, smoldering.

"What...what did you say?" He had sobered up, if only for a brief minute. Sora suddenly went into panic mode and denied it fretfully, shaking her head quickly and repeating the word "No" several times before finally bringing her words together.

"I...I did not mean to say that, I just mean to nod...my assent, yes," she struggled, trying to sound neutral. At this stage, the Archon was completely unpredictable; the slightest mishap could set him off. But he seemed assuaged, perhaps because he had made Sora panic and that had pleased him. He lay back down, grumbling.

"If you say so." He finished off the most recent jar of wine, downing it in a few quick swallows.

Sora couldn't breathe easy; she hoped that the Archon would not notice that her chest was tight and that her breathing was quick and forced, as she repressed the urge to panic under stressful conditions. She soldiered on, hoping that he would soon become bored and would dismiss her.

"You know, leading an army this...*hic*...big isn't as easy as, ah, you'd expect," he said, and Sora refrained from speaking, allowing him to continue. "There's so much to manage...and it's quite, ehrm, stresssssful," he drawled. "Ya know, I prize my troops..."

"Yes, my lord?" Sora spoke, so as not to lose his interest.

"They're good, solid men. The armor that they wear...I had it, ah, designed, to be both powerful and aesthetically pleasing at the same time. Shining, too, very reflective, and colorful!" he spouted, ranting aimlessly. Sora, who was only half paying attention, made another mistake.

"Like knights...kinda like Lord Kleiner's knights?"

The very mention of the name Kleiner brought him back up again, sitting straight up out of bed.

"Kleiner? You...you speak of him?"

"Er...no, my Lord, I was just mentioning that his riders are...very well dressed, fine armor," Sora tried to save face. But she was doing it the wrong way; that only inflamed the Archon more, to the point where he rose out of bed.

"Don't speak of that name!" he hissed, standing up, stark naked, in front of her.

"I'm sorry-"

Her humble apology was what drove him over the edge. Already drowned in alcohol, the Archon had little control over his actions, and in his rage he grabbed the empty jar of wine, the nearest one, and attempted to hurl it at Sora.

It missed by several feet, but she still rolled off of the divan and onto the hard ground anyway, fearing the thrown projectile. She was in full panic mode now; the Archon was beyond words, having been driven into an inexplicable rage simply because of the mere mention of the name of James Kleiner.

"I d-didn't mean to, m-my Lord, I'm s-sorry-"

Her attempts at bleating out an apology were lost upon the imbibed mind of Archon Sykardos. As soon as she rose, attempting to gain a standing position, his arm flew out and struck her on the cheek, spinning her head and sending her flying onto the ground right by where the wine jar had shattered. The blow was unexpected, and Sora lost her wind as soon as she hit the ground, thankfully sparing her face from the impact by shielding it with her hands as she fell. Survival instinct began to take over, and she tried to rise again.

"You don't mention the name of James Kleiner in my ears, you _whore_!" the Archon bellowed, now resembling an enraged bull. No guards entered the tent to investigate the noise; apparently they were either paid not to, or thought that it would be better to remain outside. Sora was alone with this monster, and she tried to stand and apologize again.

"I didn't mean to, I didn't mean to!" she repeated over and over again, almost falling to her knees to beg the Archon for mercy. But he smacked her again, backhanding her harder, and she hit the ground again, now feeling tears welling up in her eyes. The situation felt ever so hopeless now; he was in the throes of a violent rage, and whatever he did to her she had to suffer through.

"I'll fuck you until you bleed, you slut!" he roared, grabbing Sora by the shoulders and turning her over so that she faced him. She struggled and managed to slip out of his hands just a bit, before his grip on her shoulders became strong once more.

_He means to rape me. Rape me, make me scream, and make me suffer until he feels that his wrongs have been avenged._

She knew that he would rape her until she begged for mercy, rape her until she could cry no longer, and in that moment of realization the survival instinct _really _kicked in.

Sora saw the lone shard of pottery lying right within her reach. As she struggled to escape his grasp, her arm shot out, grabbed the jagged chunk of hardened clay, and blindly attacked the Archon.

One strike was all that she needed.

The shard of the jar drove right into the Archon's throat, piercing his jugular vein. Immediately, the force in his arms faltered; his eyes, fiery and hot, suddenly grew still and cold and lifeless, as blood poured from the open gash and he collapsed. He fell down on top of Sora, still convulsing briefly as his life left him. Those eyes flickered a few times, and then went still, along with the rest of his body.

For a moment, Sora was silent and still. The blood of the Archon drained out onto her body and dribbled onto the ground, as he finally lay still. He was dead; dead as a doornail, slain by a girl not even eighteen.

_Slain by a whore_.

Her first instinct was to begin to break down into tears and bawl, as she was wont to do when everything went to hell. But there was another instinct that took her, survival coming back once more. Before the guards noticed something was wrong, she had to run.

_Run, and get away. Go._

She was able to slip out from underneath the tent and dash down a hill, aided by the moonlight. With night fallen, very few people were out and about in the camp; those who were did not notice the lone figure, swift and shadowy, dashing through the darkness to freedom. It was a nearly impossible escape, but she made it; driven by the will to survive, driven by the will to find freedom, trying to forget those that she left behind.

Sora ran, and ran, until the lights of the camp dimmed behind her, and the great boughs of the Brackwood concealed her.


	28. Swampheart, Part II

**Hello internet. You know the drill.**

**I'm on vacation, but this is a terrible vacation ridden with traffic and weather issues and construction and other things. So, yeah. Publishing was a bit of an issue. But I managed to get this chapter done. No review answers, unfortunately.**

**VVVVV**

They had ridden for what seemed like endless days. Due to poor weather and lack of direction, their pace had been incredibly slow. The two had seen nothing but forests and plains since leaving Iceport, and by the time that the sixteenth day dawned, they were more lost than ever.

But that all changed when Matt spotted something in the distance.

When he awoke on that sixteenth day, his body ached like it had never done so before. Flaming pain lanced up his shoulders as he forced himself up to a sitting position, brushing dry leaves off of his chest as he rose. Kellan was still fast asleep, snoring by the nearly dead campfire. The first rays of dawn's light were just now creeping over the eastern horizon, and for a moment Matt saw something.

It was just barely visible, illuminated by the rising sun, peering over the horizon. Whatever it was, it didn't look natural; it looked like some sort of tower, distant but still visible. Despite the mystery surrounding the object, Matt knew that it had to be worth visiting, even if it was abandoned or empty; perhaps it could give them their bearings and allow them to reorient themselves, or maybe even give them a map of the surrounding area.

Matt allowed his muscles to relax as he woke and ate what little he had rationed himself, waiting for Kellan to rise. As soon as the other boy was fully awake and was ready to eat, Matt pointed out the strange object rising over the horizon. It was barely visible over some shrubs, but it was there.

"It looks like a tower of some sort," Kellan observed as his eyes traced Matt's fingers to the direction of the object.

"I thought the same. Maybe it's worth seeing?"

"The game trail leads that way, I say we follow it. What do we have to lose?" Kellan said.

Matt realized that they had _everything _to lose, but he kept his mouth shut. This could be a golden opportunity, and even if it was some bandit hideout or a trap, it was worth at least taking a look around.

As soon as they had ate and fed and watered the horses, they headed in the direction of the strange tower, following the game trail through the dense forest as quickly as they could. As the sun rose in the sky, slowly converting the rosy red to a light blue, the tower rose up higher and higher in the distance, now clearly visible.

"It's pretty damn tall," Kellan observed as they continued to ride.

"We'll see what it is soon," Matt promised, trying to let the hooves of his horse drown out the clicking of the pendant.

"I can see a clearing up ahead...the trees are gone," Kellan said, pointing to a spot about fifty meters ahead. He was right; there was just clear blue sky up ahead, as if the game trail started sloping down a steep hill.

But the game trail just stopped.

As soon as they reached the clearing, they realized that it was actually a cliffhang; they were about a thousand feet up from sea level, standing on the cusp of a rocky ledge, looking down at a rapidly-flowing ravine river and a massive city of stone and marble sitting upon a dark green plain.

"Well, we found our tower," Kellan said dryly. "Problem is-"

"I was not expecting this."

"Nor was I," Kellan said. "Erm...well, at least we know where it is now. That's something."

"We should follow the cliff and see if we can find a way down," Matt suggested, scanning both directions for any signs of a pathway down. Nothing but a sheer dropoff, for as far as he could see. In a few areas, the trees grew close to the edge, and their branches dangled over precariously.

It took them about ten minutes of riding along the ridge to find a semi-decent way to descend a bit farther. The steep drop became smooth enough that a natural path had been worn out, and they were able to lead the horses slowly down about halfway before the cliff face became too steep to allow any form of descent. By the time they had made it down that far, the sun was high in the sky, and it was starting to become hot.

And humid.

"That's one damn city if I ever saw one," Kellan mused. "And the grass around it...so thick and tall," he pointed to massive dark masses surrounding the city, about a mile away from the wall. On closer observation, smoke rose from these dark blotches, wispy and gray.

"I don't think that's grass..."

"It's something," Kellan said.

"That's woodsmoke you can see rising from the plains. Something from a campfire," Matt observed. "I can't tell from this distance, it's too far away. Maybe we can get a closer look if we can find a way across the canyon."

It turned out that their path across was at the very bottom of the ravine; despite his best attempts to find another passage, Matt had to follow the meandering, steep trail down to the edge of the swiftly rushing water, at the very bottom of the canyon. Thankfully, the water was only an inch or two deep, bubbling furiously over a basin of smooth pebbles, and Matt was able to carefully lead his horse across the rushing brook, followed closely by Kellan. They crossed to the other side of the ravine, and then found a junction where the river branched off and followed it closer to the city. But it turned out to be a dead end.

Looking up at a sheer wall of rock and reddish stone, Matt suddenly felt like a trapped animal. He held the reins tightly in his sweaty hands, wondering if turning back and retracing their steps would have been a better idea. The sun was now high in the sky, and its heat was taking a toll on him.

"We could try going back up and finding a way _around _this," Kellan suggested, keeping his horse steady. "I mean..."

"That would take forever, you know," Matt pointed out.

"Yeah, but...we're stuck here. It's a dead end, man."

It was just the two of them, alone, standing before the massive cliff face, trying to determine what their next course of action would be.

"The city's right above us. Can you see the walls, built into the cliff face?" Matt asked, gazing upward. He had to use the flat of his hand to protect his eyes from the sun's light, but both of them could see the stark white walls rising three hundred feet above them.

"If only we could climb..."

"Damn, you can't climb this wall," Matt argued. "Almost no way you could-"

They had previously been alone. But when Matt turned his horse around, he realized that they had company. About fifty meters away, two men with long hunting bows had crouched behind some rocks and had their weapons trained on both Matt and Kellan. For a small, awkward moment, Matt stared both of them down, wondering if they were going to shoot. They did not.

"Matt, maybe we should go back, I mean-"

Kellan turned around, and he too was faced with the two bowmen. However, unlike Matt, his reaction was more spur-of-the-moment; he groped for his sword, quickly, hurriedly striking it from its sheath only to have it slip out of his sweaty hands and drop to the rocky basin floor with a resonant clatter. Neither of the bowmen spoke or moved; they kept their weapons readied, prepared to loose their deadly shafts on command.

For a good two minutes, Matt and Kellan sat there atop their nervous horses, waiting. The bowmen drew their strings back, and lowered the weapons, but they still stayed there behind the rocks, waiting. Their arrows were still nocked, Matt could tell; it would be folly to try to run out of his dead end, he would be shot down before he could run his horse ten feet.

Before long, it appeared as though another five men emerged from out of the rock of the cliff face, from behind the two archers. They passed by the sentinels, approaching Matt and Kellan; sensing trouble, Matt dismounted, hoping to avoid any conflict. As Kellan stooped to pick up his sword, Matt stepped roughly on his foot, preventing him from grasping the weapon and forcing him to stand up again, albeit in pain.

"You two are far from wherever you mean to be," the leading man said in a brusque voice, betraying no hint of intimacy or friendship. He was cold, and to the point.

"We mean to be here," Matt said to him, holding his horse tightly by the reins.

"Is that so?"

"Yes."

"Two young men, no older than twenty, wandering the wilderness south of Swampheart...and you_mean to be here_. I see," he pondered. "I see."

"We're traveling. Traveling...trying to get home. We got lost, see," Matt tried to explain, hoping to hang on to a shred of truth. He could tell he was failing.

"You were traveling. Go on."

"And, well, we came to this ravine, and decided to go down it to see if we could find a way around, and-"

"And you just so happened to come to this very branch of the canyon?" the other man finished. "Yes, of course. Such an interesting story. I'm glad to have heard your side of it, thank you for explaining."

Matt thought he was free; for a fleeting moment, he thought he had secured his freedom from the mysterious armed men.

"Thank you, I'm sorry for-"

A mailed fist cuffed him across the face, smashing into him with the force of a hammer and knocking him flat onto the ground. The horse whinnied and reared, suddenly panicked, and Matt could hear a struggle and a dull, soft thud before something told him Kellan hit the ground as well.

"Check their pockets, check their armor. Everything!" the brusque man barked. Matt felt rough hands grab him and turn him over. A steel knife was put to his throat, and he was suddenly afraid again.

"I swear to the old gods, the new, the Creator and the Man of White Eyes, if you're one of those damned Enderborn, I will cut your fucking throat right here and now!" the brusque man cursed, his eyes livid and spittle forming at the corners of his upturned mouth. He pressed the knife closer to Matt's throat.

"I-"

"Answer me!"

"Not an Enderborn, I'm not one of them!" Matt protested, defending himself. He felt the rough hands drag him up to a standing position.

"Take him inside. Make sure he's blindfolded, too, and make sure he stays safe until the Lord Commander can see him," the brusque man ordered, and two of the spearmen took Matt and hauled him away.

As they passed the two archers, one of them handed the spearman on the right a blindfold, and the soft cloth was wrapped around Matt's eyes. All he could see was a blurred, deformed picture of the outside world as he was dragged along the stony ground and into a darker place. The temperature dropped significantly as soon as the sunlight disappeared, and Matt presumed that he was within the cliffside, in some sort of cave.

For a few minutes he was roughly led by the two men through dark, barely lit tunnels and spaces, and finally shoved into a damp room with Kellan quickly following behind him. Their blindfolds were removed and, before they could see where they were, the windowless iron door to their cell was shut tight. The only light came from a low-burning torch on the right wall, dripping oil.

"Well, fuck. That's great," Kellan swore, slapping the hard ground. "Brilliant."

"You're not helping..."

"I was expecting a hundred things, but certainly not this!" he complained. "Are they Enderborn? Rykar's men hunting us?" Kellan asked, suddenly frightened.

"They were asking if we were Enderborn...and that one threatened to cut my throat if I was. I don't think these are Rykar's allies," Matt concluded. "Otherwise they would be speaking different."

"I didn't recognize the armor. But hell, they're aggressive..."

"We're trespassing, perhaps. I can see why they attacked us," Matt shrugged, just as the door opened again. A man dressed in the same armor as the others, with a rugged face, an eyepatch and matted blonde hair, stepped into the room and sat down. He wore no helmet, but the rest of his body was fully armored in boiled leather and, in some places, light plate.

"What is that around your neck?" was the first question he asked. Matt was not obliged to answer immediately; he brought his hand to the pendant, but did not reply.

"I asked you a question. I can see the chain, what is it? Please, answer."

The tone of his voice was calm, yet intimidating; Matt decided it was better to indulge him, and removed the pendant, handing it over gently.

_Are they going to take it from me? Are they stealing it?_

The blonde, armored man turned it over in his hands briefly, considering it. To his surprise, as soon as he was finished, he handed the pendant back over.

"So it's true. What my sergeant said was true...you carry her necklace," he said.

"You know about this?" Matt asked, holding the pendant out.

"I am exposed to the knowledge. The Pendant of Adeline Jones is an ancient artifact...many believe it to be a rumor, but it is real, _has _been real. But ever since it was discovered, it has been held in Brackwood Keep," the other man said, sounding concerned. "Pray tell me, what befell the Keep? Actually, no...tell me everything from Connaughtsshire. Everything you know."

Matt was obliged to bring the other man up to date on everything that had happened since he had arrived; despite his reservations, and the fact that he was quickly becoming confused, he recounted all of the global events that had occurred up until he had left for Iceport, and then switched to telling his own story, from their departure to Rykar's betrayal and all the way up to their apprehension in the canyon.

The large amount of news seemed to bother the armored man beyond reckoning.

"I had no idea...and you came into possession of the pendant how?" he asked.

"I found it."

"You...found it?"

"In a stream, I dunno which one, I told you I got attacked-"  
"So it was just laying out in the wilderness, then?" the man tried to confirm.

Taking a deep breath, Matt delved into the details that Rykar had told them during their fatal confrontation at Iceport. As crazy as it sounded, Matt spared no minute detail; he omitted nothing, preferring to tell Rykar's story with as much fidelity as he could muster. At the end, the armored man took a deep breath and slapped his gloved palm to his thick forehead.

"Normally, I'd dismiss you as batshit crazy...but...you have the pendant. That's reason enough to believe all of this. You have that...do you realize what kind of power you carry?" he asked. Matt nodded, remembering how much it had affected him at Iceport. The clicking was always there.

"Well, this is...unexpected. I suppose I should tell you _why _I asked you all of these questions," the blonde said.

"It would be nice."

"If you're not aware, our fair city is under siege. Has been, for months. I've lost track...day in and day out, we are surrounded. We can draw our water from the aquifers, we have plenty of food, and the last remaining citadel at Voidmouth protects the city itself, but we haven't been able to break the lines at all. Swampheart is besieged."

Kellan perked up when that name was mentioned.

"Are we at Swampheart?" he asked suddenly, very excited.

"Under it," the blonde man answered.

"I was just wondering...I've never seen it..."

"You'd much rather see it in a finer state than this. We're hanging on by a bare thread," he sighed. "The siege has been relentless."

"We cannot stay here. We have a job to do," Matt told him.

"Are you telling me to release you, then?" the blonde man snorted.

"I'm...asking you-"

"It was hard enough for me to believe your tall-as-hell tale, and that was only because I can plainly see the pendant around your neck," he scoffed, pointing a gloved finger at Matt. "You think I'm just going to let you go on your merry way? Where will you go?" he posited.

"We need a coldforge."

The word gave the bulky man pause for a moment.

"There was one in Iceport. Why didn't you-"

"I had to flee. We were being hunted."

"Ah. I see," he stopped in the middle of his sentence. "That was...the only one..."

Matt suddenly felt defeated. He had held hopes that this man might be able to offer some help, but there was none to be found. He was dejected, and his shoulders slumped almost immediately.

"...in this realm."

"Wait...in this realm?" Matt suddenly perked up. "What do you mean?"

"There is another coldforge...well, as far as I know there is. Who knows what happened to it, we haven't visited the location in four hundred years," the blonde man scoffed.

"What did you mean, another realm?" Matt asked again.

"It's through the portal. The Nether, the Second Realm."

"It...the Nether?" Matt asked, briefly confused. He had heard of it before, but the name gave him pause, as he tried to recollect fragmented memories about it. "The...fiery place, yes?"

"You could call it that. There is a coldforge located there, of all places. Abandoned for quite a long time, though," the other man said. "You'd be mad to even try to get there."

"It's the only option I have left," Matt told him.

"Your mission is suicidal. If I were you, I'd turn back around to Iceport," he suggested.

"I told you-"

"I know what you told me. But believe me when I say this...it might be safer back there than it is on the other side of the portal," he warned. Matt still refused to listen.

"You didn't see what I did. We are being hunted, and there's no way we can turn back. We _have _to do this," Matt tried to argue, feeling quite futile. "_Please_."

"You're asking a lot from me considering that I don't quite trust you yet..."

"I told you everything," Matt said.

"I know, I know...listen, if you weren't wearing that necklace, I would have had your head off for about a dozen reasons. But that pendant is what's keeping you alive, and it's the one reason that I believe everything you've said so far!" the blonde growled, sounding thoroughly irritated. "As much as you're asking...it's too much to grant right now. I'm sorry."

Matt kept a straight face, even though his resolve quickly withered away.

"What do you plan to do with us, then?"

"Hold you here for the night, and bring you to see Rose Leader in the morning. A matter like this should be brought up with her...she'll know what to do," was the answer.

"Rose Leader?"

"She keeps this city, part of the long lineage of the Rose Line, and she will be most interested to hear what you have to say. Something this important needs to go before her, and she will make the final verdict on you," he explained.

"Why not just let us go, and forget that all of this happened?" Matt suggested. He tried once more, but it ended in failure.

"I cannot do that, I'm sorry. You'll stay here for the night, in comfort, and tomorrow morning I will take you to Rose Leader. This I promise."

He finally sat up to leave.

"So we're prisoners, then?" Matt inquired curiously.

"More like guests. I apologize for your harsh treatment earlier, but our enemies are everywhere, and our friends are not to be found. Suspicion is what keeps us safe," he explained, before apologizing once more. It would not suffice for Matt; he still felt trapped as the heavy cell door shut again and, to his dismay, was locked from the outside with a loud clank.

"Well shit."

"I'm sorry, Kellan...we never should have come here," Matt apologized, finding his way into a corner and laying his back against the wall. Despite their imprisonment, it was almost a relief to be out of a saddle.

"I think that's a bit extreme," Kellan rebutted. "We probably made a terrible entrance, though."

"At least we still have a chance at getting this thing open," Matt glanced down at the pendant. "The coldforge..."

"I doubt that will happen, Matt. Don't get your hopes up," Kellan warned. "The way he was talking about it..."

"I'm just keeping it in mind, is all. Tomorrow morning, we will see."

VVVVV

The news came in, not by courier or by bat, but by an outrider, one of James Kleiner's reliable scouts. He carried with him multiple reports, each one more disturbing than the last.

Kleiner's embattled mind attempted to sort everything out; so far, what he had grasped was that four distinct armies were converging onto the city of Crestan, where Kleiner and his second-in-command were encamped. It was the last city that swore loyalty to Kastner's banner; even though Kleiner had heartily opposed the once-powerful regent, he had no choice but to continue to fly the late lord's flag, in order to maintain what little support he still held. He and Brennan combined had twenty thousand troops under their command, with an extra five thousand Crestan men and two thousand soldiers who owed their loyalty to the slain Lord Rolf of North Driftmist.

Against that, if reports were to be believed, stood nearly two hundred thousand soldiers of Ais Kleisardathos, the nearly mythical southern empire that had decided to, on a power-hungry whim, invade Connaughtsshire. To tack onto that, Lord Darius Cymander had decided to march north with a total of one hundred thousand men, his intentions still unclear, and Lord Alex Tanner had turned his banners and declared his independence, marching towards Crestan with nearly eighty-thousand men. All of them would arrive within a week's time, and Stanislaus Antar was just slightly farther off, his army having suffered only small losses at the Ditch and dwarfed only by the Kleisardathan army.

"Archon Sykardos is dead as well," Thomas Brennan reported, sorting through hastily written missives sent by outriders. "The news has spread like wildfire. We're probably the last to know it."

"He's dead? How?" Kleiner asked, pacing nervously in his command tent. The ash was piling up once more; it was nearly two feet thick in areas that weren't tended to, areas that weren't cleaned up.

"We don't know. But we know that he _is_."

"It would be nice to know what did him in," Kleiner grumbled.

"Murder, apparently. We don't know who, or what, but the Xonos Mallistron is in command now," Brennan told him.

"I know him."

"He's a cruel man, and a tactical genius. Did you study him?" Brennan asked.

"I've heard about his campaigns. He's a nasty man, and his tactical brilliance is on par with that of Antar or the like. He's ten times the military man that Sykardos was," Kleiner said. "Of course I studied him, a bit. Most people don't even believe that Ais Kleisardathos exists, but they are uneducated. I have known about it, and heard about it, for a long time."

"Of course, my lord, as I expected-"

"And he knows about us. He knows how we fight, and he knows both of us, at least in name. The Archon was far more clueless, all he knew about was how to eat, sleep, fuck, and run a kingdom with minimal effort," Kleiner tittered. "This disturbs me."

"As for me."

"A man like that in charge of 200,000 trained soldiers...he can wield them like a hammer. Crestan is the anvil, and we are the metal," Kleiner said.

"We're caught in the lion's den, James," Brennan told him. "We're surrounded by nearly six hundred _thousand _of our enemies, and we're outnumbered to hell. You know this."

"I am aware. But what would you have me do?"

"You're our leader," Brennan told him. "You've got to do something?"

"I intend to hide behind these walls and let them come get me. If they want me, they'll pay the price in blood," Kleiner insisted.

"The men of Crestan are ready to die for you, as you know."

"All of them? Because if it comes to battle, many will not survive. Few will live to see the outcome, I fear," Kleiner said.

"They know that. We have all known this. This may be the end of the line."

"Then let's make it a damn good one," Kleiner told him. "Have the men pack the camp up, and sequester them inside of the city. Can we fit them all in?"

"We should be able to quarter them...the tunnels and chambers underneath Crestan run deep, and we have plenty of space for both men and supplies," Brennan reported. He was always good at logistics; that was why Kleiner had chosen him as his right-hand man.

"Give the order, then."

"So we're making this our final stand?" Brennan confirmed.

"I intend to fight it out, whether this is our final stand or not. We die, we live, what does it matter? We will fight, and give those bastards a fight to remember."

VVVVV

The Xonos Mallistron was not a man to be bothered by idle issues; if there was a problem with the camp or a small logistical error, it was to be taken up with the camp quartermaster. That was a very obvious fact; however, someone seemed to have forgotten it that day, four days after the Archon's untimely, bloody death. Having received the useless report, he was in quite a poor mood when one of his outriders arrived with a report that the city of Crestan was in sight.

"How many days, then?" Mallistron asked, sitting lazily in the chair that had belonged to the Archon just half a week ago. He had it moved from Sykardos' personal tent to the main command tent, where it would be more accessible for the captains of the hoplite army.

"I would say three, my lord. If we continue our same pace," the outrider reported. It was the first good news of the day; the other reports had been either meaningless or were misfortunate events.

"Three days. Three days to Crestan...are the other reports consistent?"

"Three other armies march on the city, my lord. All of them pose a credible threat to our force," the outrider reported. "I...I presume you have heard this before?"

"Many other scouts have told me the same. But the more who say it, the more credible it becomes. Thank you."

"Of course, my lord."

The outrider bowed out of respect, and backed out of the tent. He was the last report of the day; thankfully. The Xonos was getting tired of listening to various reports on events outside of the camp.

"That's the last visit of the day, am I correct?" Mallistron asked his assistant. The black-haired slave nodded, the tiny brass bells tied into his knotty hair tinkling as he bowed his head.

"Alright. Take me to the girl."

The investigation into the murder of Archon Sykardos had already begun; in order to dispel a host of rumors surrounding the bloody event, the Xonos had taken it upon himself to find out who killed him, and how. As much as he had disliked the nonchalant, lackadaisical slob who had somehow managed to keep the kingdom together, the Archon had been his leader and had led the army this far, and the Xonos was obliged to investigate the killing and find the murderer. So far, the only lead they had was that one of the Archon's favorite comfort woman, an Earth woman of Asian descent, had gone missing the night he was found dead on the floor of his tent, covered in his own blood with a jagged pottery shard lying by his slit throat. That was what they knew; the slave that the missing girl shared her tent with, another Earth girl, had to know _something_. Seeing as the missing slave courtesan was the prime suspect, her roommate would be the first one to be questioned on the matter.

_And harshly_.

There was no mercy to be had for slaves, especially ones who possibly harbored secrets about murderers. By this time, the killer would be far gone, if she was smart enough to flee the camp; but it would do no good to simply let the matter go, as many of the soldiers had loved the Archon for his temperate manner and his refined sense of humor. The Xonos, as much as he was loved for his ingenuity and skill, was a harsh man to his men, forcing them to train daily, and he was not loved so much as he was respected. He was obliged to do as much as he could to bring the bloody murderer to justice.

And that was where the French girl came in.

_Her name does not matter. What matters is that we interrogate her. Perhaps we can learn something, and, if we are lucky, perhaps she will lead us to the girl we want_.

There would be nothing gentle about the interrogation, of course; what point would that be? One would not learn the whereabouts of the missing slave girl by asking gentle questions, no. The Xonos had plenty of experience with breaking both men and women down; he would have no trouble with forcing a luxury girl to submit.

"Is the girl ready?" he asked his assistant.

"She is."

"Take me to her. I am ready," the Xonos announced, and he was led from the command tent deeper into the camp, down towards the barracks. A makeshift prison had been erected, and inside of that prison the makeshift interrogation room would be, with the French slave who was of interest.

Mallistron was followed only by his assistant and two soldiers to form as a guard; this was to be his interrogation, and his alone. He knew what he had to do, and he knew how to extract answers.

_Like metal from a forge. Apply the fire and the hammer, and you will have your blade._

The prison was dark, even if it was constructed from makeshift cloth. Only a few torches burned within, giving it a dark and dim atmosphere.

_Perfect for the job I have to do. The darker, the better_.

The girl was waiting inside of one of the cells, sitting on what looked to be a cross between a cross and an operating table. It was flat like a table, but had extensions in the shape of a cross, built specially for a person to be tied down and have their legs and arms extended. It served its purpose as either an interrogation table or a torture device; in the end, both would most likely be applied. It depended, really, on how strong her will was. When he entered, she was already laying on the table, unbound but voluntarily immobilized. As with all prisoners, she was unclothed.

She did not betray any fear when he walked into the room; either she was good at hiding her qualms, or she was not afraid at all.

_It's unlikely that she does not feel fear in my presence. Anybody in this situation would. But she's keeping her calm._

"Close the door," he ordered. His stern voice did not break her yet; a bead of sweat ran down her cheek, but she did not flinch.

"What is your name?" he asked, once the door had been closed. The two hoplites stood at guard, while the assistant positioned himself in a corner by a blazing fire. The fireplace was used to make the room hotter than normal; since the interrogation room was constructed out of scrap metal, there was no chance of starting an actual fire.

"What is your name?" the Xonos asked again, more impatiently, after she did not answer. She still refused to talk. He decided it was not yet time to use aggressive force, so he turned to his assistant and asked him.

"She is...her name is Marceline, my lord," he bowed.

"Marceline. A pretty name," Mallistron commented. He did not want to come on too strong yet; if she did not bend, she would break. But first he would give her a chance to bend.

"I know what you want," she declared, her accent heavy despite her good grasp of English. "You're looking for her."

"Does she have a name?" the Xonos asked, still attempting to be firm yet encompassing.

"It's not for you to know," she spat, laying still on the table.

"You will tell me."

"I will not," she declared passionately.

"You don't have to make this hard. If you speak, no harm will come to you, and I promise that you will walk free, with no further questions asked," Mallistron told her. Whether or not he would hold to that, depended on how the interrogation and the results went.

"You lie through your teeth. I know who you are," she said.

"I won't give you another chance. Talk, and no harm will come to you," he promised again, more firmly. She would not budge.

"I shall not."

He turned away, as if giving up, and then suddenly turned on his heels again and delivered a powerful blow to her face. It was a slap, not a punch; not time to be destructive yet, only violent. She was shaken by the sudden strike, however; perhaps she _would _bend after all.

"It will only hurt more the longer you resist. Please, speak."

_For your own good. I do not want to have you break you_.

As cruel as he was, the Xonos tried to be fair, even to prisoners. If they would tell him what he desired to hear, they would go free; however, if they resisted him, they brought the pain upon themselves.

And he did have an attraction to pain. That much was clear.

"I know what you want to hear from me."

"Then will you tell me where she went? I told you, if you tell me-"

Without even letting him finish, she spat in his face. It was a rude gesture, offensive, and it was clear that she had no intention of speaking.

"I do not know where she went, but even if I did, I would never tell you! She is free now, and there is nothing you can do about it!" the girl hissed, rising up from the table. The Xonos was glad that his two guards had their wits about them; as soon as she tried to rise, they rushed over, grabbed her by the shoulders and slammed her back down, tying her arms down to the X-frame of the table. Her legs were still free, but she was now immobilized. The Xonos wiped the warm saliva from his face, letting the sting in his eye pass before he spoke again.

"So be it."

He tried. Nobody could blame him for that.

"Spread her legs apart. Tie them down."

The soldiers followed their order without a word. As he heard struggling and grunting from behind him, the Xonos walked over to the fire and withdrew the brand that had been waiting for this moment.

_This is all your fault, you stupid girl. If you had only answered me_.

"I'm afraid that you've brought this upon yourself," the Xonos spoke, retrieving the red-hot brand. "You know, I would ask myself: was this all worth it?"

_Now _he saw fear in her eyes, now that she was strapped down and helpless. She began to breathe heavily, chest heaving as the Xonos drew closer with the brand.

"I would question your logic if I were you. Was it worth withholding all that you know? Even if you didn't know anything, was it worth the fight? Think about that," he told her, as he lowered the brand down towards her outspread legs. She struggled, but the leather bonds were strong, and held tight.

"You're a monster!" she cursed him, now truly afraid. He saw that in her eyes, and he enjoyed it.

"You know, I think you're right. Because I'm going to _enjoy _this," he grinned, guiding the burning brand directly towards the soft tissue between her legs.

_If you cannot make them bend, then break them_.


	29. Rebellion In the Rock

**Hello friends!  
Just so you know, the next chapter is going to be quite long and writing it is a bit of a pain. Expect, a short wait, sorry.**

**REVIEW ANSWERS:**

**VerinSedai: I have no idea who wins this award. Maybe we should hold a contest? Hehe...**

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**EclipseWolf64: WOAH THERE. Hyper much? I was able to make out about half of that :P**

**VVVVV**

Quite involuntarily, Parker found himself in a jail cell with Adrian. Not that _Adrian _was the problem; it was the jail cell.

The Ditch's prison ward, down on the lowest level of the city, was now full to bursting with "firebrands", the dozens of men and women seized during the raid on the tannery that Parker had attended. In retrospect, it had been a foolish idea; gathering so many people, dozens of fiery revolutionaries, in one place was simply asking for trouble. And they got trouble..._and a traitor_.

The one person out of their group who was _not _in a cramped cell was Franz, who had gone turncoat. Parker was almost glad that they hadn't thrown the lad into jail as well; if the two of them had shared a cell, he would have strangled the traitor the moment the guards had turned their backs.

"I should've known he was up to something," Adrian said from the back of the cell. His arms were wrapped tightly around his legs, and his head rested on his bony knee, looking quite uncomfortable.

"Who? Franz?"

"Yeah...he acted strange all evening. I should've known," Adrian mumbled.

"I hear you. I should've noticed something too," Parker admitted. They were within hearing range of everyone else in the room; the jail quarters were small, and nearly half of the accosted revolutionaries were imprisoned in the same cell block. The other half had been squeezed into various other blocks in the dungeons.

"Well, if you two are done bitching about what you _should _have done, maybe now we can focus on what we do next?" Aleesha suggested from the cell to the right. As always, she was quite calm and focused, despite her situation. She was idly twirling her hair, looking almost bored in the dim light of the nearest torch.

"Well, I was considering sitting here and looking pathetic some more," Adrian attempted to joke.

"Verrrry funny. Can we be serious?" Aleesha asked.

"You were trying to be serious?"

If she hadn't been in another cell, she probably would've slapped Adrian; but the bastard was separated from her by a thick set of iron bars, and the most Aleesha could do was roll her eyes and sigh loudly.

"Cut it you two. There's a time and a place for bullshit," Parker reprimanded them, and they both fell silent. He half expected their childish arguments to turn to whispering, but silence held.

After a short while one of the guards came in to check the torches. Parker sat in his cell, watching the armored guard closely as he made his rounds. Only when the flickering, dim light fell on the man's face did he become spurred into action.

It was Franz. Now equipped with a fancy suit of Reinhardt armor, no doubt supplied by the grateful guardsmen who had received his tip. It looked slightly awkward on him, due to the fact that it did not quite fit correctly.

"Well, well. That suit fits you nicely, doesn't it?" Parker taunted, now feeling thoroughly angry. The very sight of Franz would've been enough to rouse him; but seeing him in Antar colors, and with that badge pinned to his lapel, was the crucial straw.

"Fuck off."

"So it's not enough to turn us in, you become one of them, is that so?" Parker asked, walking up to the bars to face Franz, who did the same. A few of the other prisoners jeered him, but the rest were silent in anticipation, watching.

"I saw an opportunity, and I took it," Franz said calmly.

"You saw an opportunity?"

"Yes."

"An opportunity to betray your closest friends and your home city. Is that an opportunity?" Parker asked angrily.

"I wasn't about to end up on the losing side. And besides, this pays much better than mining in that filthy hole-"

"That filthy hole's our second home," Aleesha spat from her cell. "Maybe you could try watching your mouth?"

Franz shot her a dirty look, but decided she wasn't worth the effort of arguing with. He returned to Franz as several of the other prisoners began to jeer him angrily.

"You seem pretty professional, Franz," Parker needled him. "Arguing with rebellious trash like us."

"You're still my friends-"

"Ha! That's rich," Aleesha piped up, and her sentiment was echoed by Adrian. Franz told both of them to shut up, before returning to Parker, both of them failing to notice somebody entering the cell block.

"You did this for money, then?" Parker asked.

"What would you do if you were in my position?"

"Something smarter, that's for sure. How do you sleep at night knowing you stabbed us all in the back and turned against your birth city?" Parker asked. Franz reached through the bars, in an attempt to do physical injury, but Parker was able to simply step back and avoid him.

"I swear, if I had the keys, I'd come in there and beat you..."

"Go and get the keys, then. It'll be eight against one, and I'm sure that you can take us all," Parker offered, reminding Franz that there were seven other guys in his cell, all of whom would murder the traitor in a split second. Franz seemed to reconsider.

"Well, you can't get me, and I can't get you. That's fine, you'll go to the headsman soon anyway..."

"I knew you for seven years, Franz. How could cheap coin turn you against me like this?" Adrian asked, trying to reason with his friend.

"It's better than sweating in that mine for the rest of my life," he fired back.

"Is it? Do you really think I want to spend the rest of-"

Franz never finished his sentence. Something heavy, a rock or perhaps a chunk of masonry, hit him on the back of the head with a sharp crack, and his eyes became glassy almost immediately. He crumpled to the ground, his head hitting the iron bars as it slumped up against them. His face was replaced by a much friendlier one: that of Stewart, looking quite proud of his handiwork.

"Stew...hell, how'd you get down here!?" Adrian said, looking quite astonished.

"I'm pretty adept at lockpicking," he shrugged shamelessly. "And, hey, nobody said these guys were good at locks."

"Can you get us out of here?" Parker asked matter-of-factly, hoping to put off the greetings until later. In response, Stewart pulled out a set of cell keys and dangled them in the air.

"You sly bastard," Adrian sneered.

"I've got to get you all out of here. It's time."

"Time for what?"

"Things are starting to go down," Stewart said, hurriedly jamming the key into the cell door's padlock. "Some of the guard units are revolting, and the miners are all roused now. I smell an opportunity here."

"A rebellion?"

"Who can say? We might as well do our part, or die trying," Stewart shrugged, before the padlock clicked and the door swung open. As he went around to the other doors to get them open, Parker and his cellmates stepped out of theirs, each trying to avoid the unconscious Franz still slumped against the bars.

"Sorry about him. I really didn't want to hit him, but he was being such a prat," Stewart explained.

"He deserved it. It's not like he was going to play nice, anyway," Adrian joked, nudging his body with his foot. "You got weapons?"

"Armory's unlocked, you'll find some people there. Take what you please, just make sure it's sharp and good for killing," Stewart told him, having unlocked Aleesha's cell and proceeded to the next.

Parker followed his directions without a word, trooping up the stairs and into the main hallway of the prison. The patrolling guards had been replaced by patrolling rebels; some of them wore Reinhardt armor, others wore boiled leather, and some men wore nothing but their casual clothes, or less. Most of them held spears, and a few had managed to find a good blade.

Both Parker and Adrian managed to find their way down to the armory and find decent swords; there were plenty of weapons left for others to take, and both of them donned some spare guard armor, just for protection. Adrian wore it, but he didn't seem too pleased.

"This feels kind of ironic. I mean, we're wearing their armor..."

"It'll be fine. I think the others are cutting the lapel out to distinguish themselves. Personally, I'd rather not be stabbed by someone I know just because I tried to protect myself," Parker replied.

"It just doesn't feel right."

"You can talk about feelings later. Let's take some action first," Parker encouraged him, all ready for combat. By the time he found his way back to the prison's entrance, a veritable horde of wannabe soldiers and shaggy-looking fighters had gathered there, surrounding Stewart. The wiry lad had somehow become their impromptu leader, perhaps because he was the one who originally broke out of his cell.

"Well, gents, you're on your own from here on out. I don't know what the plan is, if there even is a plan," Stewart spoke, sounding rather awkward up on his metaphorical podium.

"What's going on out there?" someone asked from the back of the room.

"The way I hear it, shit's going down. Ehh, there's rumors about the guardsmen breaking up, half of them fighting the other half...and I hear the miners are getting their own thing going. It's like a domino effect, I can assure you of that," Stewart replied. "I'd love to tell you more, but I don't know more."

"So it's a rebellion, then?" Parker spoke up, asking this question for a second time. He expected the same response from Stewart, but to his surprise, the wiry boy only smiled, quite deviously.

"Yes."

The affirmative reply was what launched the horde of unwashed men out of the main door like a wave of water; they flooded out in a rush, spears and swords in hand, some of them yelling into the night, some of them marching gallantly, and some simply running for freedom, for fresh air. The prison square was empty; either the guards had all been slain or knocked out, or they had simply deserted. The main gate to the prison compound was open; every man flooded towards that, heading for the Upper Levels, prepared to wreak havoc and reclaim their city.

"I probably should've organized them a bit better," Stewart said, smiling as he stood beside Parker. The latter had chosen to stay behind and wait for Adrian to fix his gauntlets, before heading out and see what he could do.

"You wouldn't have done much," Parker mused bitterly, knowing that many of those men would be slain before the night was out.

"Once Darius hears of this he'll do something."

"Presuming he's still alive or has evaded capture."

"It's Darius," Stewart shrugged. "He knows his stuff, and it's not like you can miss something like this. Once the smoke starts to rise, he'll hop into the fray, I know it."

"And what will we do?" Parker asked, turning to Stewart. The young man seemed perplexed for a moment, slightly nonplussed, before his face lit with an idea.

"Make our way to the guard barracks. If it's in friendly hands...that's a great place to start..."

"And if it's not friendly?" Parker posited.

"We'll think of something. Got to think on the fly," Stewart told him. At that moment, both Adrian and Aleesha emerged from the prisoner along with a spear-bearing man. The foremost was still attempting to fix his mail gauntlets, to little avail.

"What are we doing about Franz?" Aleesha asked as she walked up to the men, unarmored and rather unfazed. "He's still out cold."  
"Leave the bastard," Adrian cursed coldly, struggling with the armor. "He's not our problem anymore."

"He's still our friend-"  
"Was," Parker reminded her. "As much as I liked him, he's turned on us. That's his own fault, not ours."

He was stern enough that Aleesha did not bother to argue. She shrugged, accepting the fact and deciding to leave Franz down in the dark cells.

"Well, I'm going on home then. I've no place in this conflict," she declared.

"You're abandoning us?" Adrian asked.

"I'm not staking my life on a bloody ravine," she told him. "I'm not taking either side. I'll just head the hell home and get some sleep, and hope nobody tries to slit my throat in the night." She removed a dagger from her pocket just briefly enough for them to see. "Just in case, you know."

"Be careful out there. It'll be hell on the streets," Parker warned, knowing that a seemingly unarmed girl would be a lucrative target for any depraved bastards taking advantage of the chaotic situation.

"I can handle myself. I'll see you gentlemen on the other side, then. Good luck."

Aleesha departed, walking out into the warm night, eventually disappearing around a bend as Stewart detailed the plan he was hatching.

"We'll make our way to the guard barracks and accost any revolutionaries we see along the way. If we get enough people, we might be able to take it over, presuming it's not already in our hands," he said.

"That's a big risk," Adrian warned. "A place like that, defensible as it is..."

"It's better than standing with our feet in the mud. We can make our way up, at least."

The three of them began their journey upward; the elevators were not in operation, so they had to make their way to the main stairwell that led up to the next level. From what they could see, parts of the Upper Level had been exposed to flame; smoke billowed out of the crevasses and apertures of the city and rose upward into the warm, dry air, adding to the growing cloud of ash up in the sky. A few stars twinkled in the night sky, but too many had been blocked out.

The city seemed to have found a perfect balance between tranquil calm and chaotic disarray; some areas were pleasantly silent, devoid of human life save a few squads of armed rebels moving in the streets silently, headed for more chaotic neighborhoods. Shutters were closed, doors were locked, torches blazed serenely while hanging from their lampposts. It was a regular night in some neighborhoods.

Others were battlefields or playgrounds of destruction; more than once, the three found themselves walking into a war zone, and had to find a detour. Barricades had been erected in the streets, homes and businesses put to the torch by one side or the other, bodies laying haphazardly in alleyways and gardens and out upon the streets themselves, bleeding onto the cobblestones. At one point, they found themselves cut off completely; the only access ramp to the Fourth Level was blockaded by guardsmen loyal to Antar, who had also managed to seize and fortify the Fourth Level Armory, which gave them a prevailing position over the access ramp. In short, they had locked down the upper half of the city, while the rebels had control of the lower half.

"Well, well. It's the tannery boys, back out on the streets," was their greeting as they approached a friendly barricade blocking off the Armory Square. "How'd you boys get out of prison?"

"I'd like to take the credit..."

"Stewart was the first to unlock his cell. It was a domino effect after that. Most of them ran loose, god knows where," Parker said, speaking for the group. "We could use some information, if you have any."

"Information? Well...nobody's really sure of anything," the barricade guard chuckled. Up ahead, in Armory Square, archers squatting behind makeshift cover skirmished with crossbowmen in the windows and towers of the Armory, neither really accomplishing much. Antar's banner hung above the gates of the Armory, where the flag of Lord Walker's house once flew.

"What situation do we have here?"

"We know that loyalists have control of the Armory, the Guard Barracks, and the top Three Levels. We have the mines and the bottom levels, plus anything below that. So we're sort of stuck here," the guard told him. "As you can see."

"Nobody's getting up to the Third Level," another added. "They've barricaded and garrisoned the ramp, and the Armory's chock full of bowmen. You'd be mad to try to rush either."

"Conroy's getting a massive group together to do that, isn't he?"

"Well, he's mad then."

Conroy turned out to be a local firebrand who had managed to instate himself as the leader of the group of rebels around the armory, and he was accepting anyone with a spear and fighting spirit to join the attack on the stronghold. Based on looks alone, Parker could see that he was a devil in a man's skin; his eyes glittered with some sort of unholy fire, and sweat covered his body, making him gleam in the ruddy light of a torch.

"You gentlemen will be fine, just fine...I can assure you, we'll use you in the assault, very well," were his first words when Parker and the other two entered his makeshift command post inside a bakery.

"Actually, we're just trying to get up to the upper levels, see what's going on-"

"Well, nobody's getting up there until we take this damn armory!" Conroy cursed, smoldering. "We may lose a lot in the process, but once we have it we can take the entire city!"

Adrian rolled his eyes subtly; Stewart shuffled nervously. Parker saw no other option; either go back, or join Conroy.

"What about you guys?" Parker asked the other two. Despite their obvious reservations, they nodded glumly. "Alright, we're in."

"I don't require you to do anything. You can do as you please, but more arms would certainly be welcome," Conroy told them.

"I said we'll join."

"Good to hear you have enthusiasm!" he smiled diabolically, excited to have three new swords join his ragtag army. "We need more men like you. We're gathering as many rebels as we can to break the line and link up with Captain Loyhrs."

"Darius is alive?" Parker asked, suddenly feeling a rush of optimism. Darius Loyhrs had been the man behind all of the seditious operations after Antar's departure; having been the Captain of the Ditch guard force before, he took it upon himself to lead the underground resistance after Lord Walker bent the knee. Wherever he was, he was probably attempting to organize this mess of a rebellion.

"We know he is. He's taken over the guard barracks and is gathering forces to his banner on the eastern side of the city, up by the gates. With luck, we can smash through the loyalist forces here at the ramp and link up with him," Conroy explained. "There's no point in withholding this information. Every man must know where his duty lies."

"Of course." Conroy's answers were better than most; at least Parker now had an idea of what he was doing, and the part he was going to play in this chaotic struggle.

They were led back out into the street and into the yard of a stonemason, where a variety of other rebels had gathered, bedecked in various garb and armor and all carrying a strange assortment of weapons. Some bore pickaxes and spades, others wielded stolen spears and swords taken off of the bodies of dead loyalists. Seeing the crude farm and mining implements that some of the unfortunates bore, Parker was glad that he had been able to scavenge a sword from the prison armory before joining up.

Before long, the yard was chock full of men milling about, silent and somber, and eventually a few men designated themselves as captains and led the assembly out. Parker, no stranger to military matters but untrained in the fine art of military organization, joined the messy flow of men out into the street, suddenly feeling nervous.

He was not a soldier, not by any means; he was a miner, his place was down in the earth. Sure, he could _carry _a sword, but that didn't mean he could wield it efficiently. If it came to blows with loyalist soldiers, he was afraid the outcome would not be in his favor at all.

The flood was led out into the street, like a bovine herd, ushered around by its so-called "captains". The entire operation reeked of certain failure; these men had never seen combat, really, besides having fled the fighting that had wracked the Ditch when Antar and Kastner had fought their battle outside of the city proper. Most of these men hadn't even participated in that; they had run or hid inside their homes, seeking shelter from the raging barbarian horde.

The flood grew even larger; a battering ram, three ladders, and sacks of demolitions charges joined the flow, now moving through the narrow avenue out into the wide plaza. The barricade guards either dispersed or joined the horde; Parker recognized the man who had accosted him, shrinking into the mass of flesh and armor marching methodically towards the armory. The arrow exchanged stop; the crossbows stopped _thunking_, the twang of bowstrings evolved into tense silence. The mass of men was gathered right at the mouth of the avenue, just out of range of the armory's defenders.

And then the orders were given. They might as well have said "suicide", but the cries of "CHARGE!" echoed throughout the mass, and with a fervor akin only to a warrior lusting for blood and justice, the first row of spearmen charged, followed by the whole mass rushing past the ram and the ladders and heading straight for the stone brick walls of the armory house.

Parker tried to keep a low profile, and noticed that Adrian and Stewart were attempting to do the same; they stayed close to the battering ram as it moved slowly, methodically up towards the wrought iron gate that formed the entrance to the armory's interior courtyard, hoping to stay protected within the mass of bodies guarding it. He was glad for it, too.

One out of every three men in the first row was cut down by crossbow quarrels, stopped mid-run by the force of bolts ripping through leather, cloth and flesh. Parker could've sworn that, above the din of yelling and the _thunks_ of crossbows, that he could hear steady gunfire roaring from one of the fireholes of the armory.

The stream of men was too thick to destroy; many of the rebels were cut down in their tracks by the arrow fire, but many more made it up to the walls of the armory, beneath the murder holes and portcullises, and stayed under cover as more and more of their comrades rushed up to join them, the ladders still lagging behind. When it seemed like the crossbowmen were beginning to concentrate their fire upon the battering ram, Parker and Adrian made a rush for the wall, keeping their heads low as they dashed past dead and dying in their bid for safety. They made it, and Stewart was on their heels a few seconds later, gasping for breath as he reached the wall safely.

The ladders were the first up, along with men bearing demolitions packs. It seemed that disorder would run the day; the men with demo packs were supposed to blow holes in the walls, and the men with ladders were supposed to scale them. It was quite a paradox, and neither group seemed to recognize this. Two ladders went up, one to a window, and suddenly lightly-armed men, fervent in their fury, rushed up the ladders armed with cudgels and plain spears, climbing to their deaths.

"What the hell kind of plan is this?" Stewart asked in disbelief as demolitions packs were thrown against the wall. "They're-"

"This is no army. This is a rabble," Parker cursed, shoving aside a young, baby-faced boy of no more than fifteen. "We've got to get to a better position."

"Well, somewhere that we won't get shot, I hope!" Adrian cursed.

There was suddenly the clash of battle from somewhere; it sounded like it was behind them as they shuffled to the right, along the wall, their backs to the hard stone. Bodies carpeted the armory's square, riddled with crossbow quarrels and bloodied. Those who had made it up to the wall either began to clamber up the ladders or stayed underneath the parapets, unsure of what action to take next.

"They're going to get themselves killed at this rate, where's our captain?" Parker yelled, his voice barely audible over the din. There was fighting _somewhere_; the clash of steel against steel was undeniable, and yet over the crossbows and the screams and the chaotic cries and the clanking of armor, nothing was truly distinguishable. War had returned to the Ditch with a vengeance, even if it was only for one night.

"Let's get to the other side of the Armory, maybe we can rally there-"

The explosion caught all three of them unawares; one of the detonation packs had apparently gone off, whether by purpose or accident, and had created a much larger explosion that anticipated. All three of the men, as well as the soldiers surrounding them, were knocked flat by the blast wave, showered with chunks of masonry and stone as they fell. A gaping cavern opened in the plaza, and as Parker looked up he could see part of the wall collapsing in and one of the ladders flying to pieces, along with what little remained of the men who had been climbing them.

Dust swirled into a cloud, cloaking the plaza in its choking miasma. Parker, still recovering from the blast, felt a hand grab him forcefully by the nape of his neck and drag him to a standing position, all the while hauling him backward. He felt himself slipping and stumbling over loose rock and stone before the dust was gone and he could see and breathe clearly. His ears still rang from the blast, but he could hear the fighting resuming.

"Mother of god..."

"They blew a hole in the plaza," Stewart gasped, looking up. When Parker stood, he realized that they were underground, having slipped into some sort of underground tunnel system. The fighting raged above, as a body tumbled down into the hole.

"No kidding."

"Did you drag us down here, Stew?" Adrian asked. Two or three others were now finding their way down into the hole, identifiable as rebels by their badgeless armor.

"I was able to get up on my feet and see this down here. I hauled both of you down before another explosion went off."

"Nice timing," Adrian complimented him, brushing dust off.

"We're not going back up there..."

"I say we go further into these tunnels. I'm sure as hell not heading back up," Stewart proclaimed. "We're already down here-"

"We might as well."

"Do you mind if we follow you?" one of the newcomers asked. "We found the hole, and..."

"It's better than up there. You can go if you want, I won't stop you," Stewart said.

The three trudged behind Parker and his group, slowly making their way into the tunnel. It was dim, but torches were lit at intervals, meaning that this catacomb was _not _abandoned.

"Is this part of the armory?" one of the other rebels wondered aloud, and Parker realized that they had actually gotten inside of the armory...possibly. It seemed likely. When they came upon a staircase leading up, he had a feeling that it would give them entrance into the stronghold.

"I'm not so sure I want to go up in there. I'll hang back and keep watch," one of the rebels announced, sounding rather nervous for a moment. Nobody told him otherwise; he stood at the doorway, tapping his foot anxiously, as they proceeded cautiously up the stairs. Another blast rocked the entire building, knocking chunks of stone from the dusty ceiling.

"Are they even organizing these explosions?" Adrian asked, swearing as a large chunk hit his shoulder.

"They were just told to set them off by the wall," a rebel answered. "No organization to it."

"That's damn stupid..."

"Well, they're no soldiers. Conroy's mad, didn't anyone tell you that?"

"A few mentioned it," Adrian muttered. "I should have listened."

Parker had never been inside of the Ditch's main guard armory; he knew that a few of the "illegal" weapons were stored in there, but most of them were down in the Vault, and a fair number had been tossed out before Antar arrived. Those few he had managed to secure were probably stashed down in the Vault, or were now in the hands of desperate loyalists.

"We need to find some weapons and get that gate open..."

"Easier said than done, eh?" Adrian said.

"Well, there's five of us. We won't make a high profile, and if we split up and head different directions..."

"Sounds like the best way to get lost. We stay together," Parker whispered. "And stick to the shadows. Keep quiet."

The rebel did not contend with him; they crouched down low by a wall and began to creep down a corridor.

The armory was completely stone; the walls, ceiling, roofs, floors were all hard, cold stone. Most buildings in the Ditch at least had wood floors or furnishings; this was just bare stone, uninviting and cold. Parker could feel the chill seeping down his back as he crept down the hallway, lit by the dim glow of torchlight.

"It sounds like the fighting's dying down out there," Stewart observed.

"Do you think we won?"

"We'd have friendlies streaming in here if they had broken the gate down," Parker scoffed. "I can't say, though..."

"We should confine ourselves to the lower areas of the armory. Less chance of being caught," the other rebel suggested.

"Yeah...let's do that."

Parker just went along with the plan; their little incursion was ever-evolving, without a clear goal in sight. They had made it this far, why turn back now? At least they were relatively safe, away from the clamor of battle outside. It sounded like it had died down now, and there were no rebels flooding the armory. The loyalists had, for the time being, beaten them back.

"There's jail cells down this way...there's a sign here..."

"You think there's people down there?" Parker asked, after Stewart read off the sign.

"People? Like...our people?"

"Like back in the cells we were held in. Do you think...?"

"It's worth a try," Stewart sighed. "If it's guarded, though..."

Despite his reservations, he led the way down the hallway, towards the dungeon area. One they got to the entrance, Stewart poked his head around, and immediately drew it back.

"Shit...there's two guards. They're both armed, sitting at a table," he reported, suddenly flustered.

"It's two guys-"

"We make a noise, and we alert the entire damn building," Parker cut Adrian off. "Do you really want that happening?"

"What choice do we have? Sooner or later someone's going to find us," Adrian argued. "Why not kill the bastards, free the men in there, and run?"

"You take an awful risk, man..."

"If we kill them, we might have some time before someone comes running to investigate it. What else are you going to do, Parker? We're cut off now, we're on our own," Adrian argued. Parker saw no choice in the matter; there was no going back now. They either pushed forward, or died. So he took the initiative.

Without a thought to stealth or safety, he drew his sword, rounded the corner and charged into the room, silent except for his heavy footfalls. The two guards were taken completely by surprise; Parker fell on one of them, using all of his running speed to drive his sword clean through the man's mail and knock him out of his chair and to the ground. The force of the blow pulled him along and swung him to the floor, where he was suddenly disoriented.

The second guard drew his own blade, but he received a spear through the back of his neck for his efforts, his hands reaching for his throat as he gasped, choked, and struggled against the spearhead driven through his throat. Within a matter of seconds, he was dead too, collapsed onto the table in a ragged, bleeding heap.

"Christ, Parker, you could've said something!" Stewart snapped, showing himself into the room and hurriedly finding his way to the closest cell. Only when Parker rose did he realize that the cells around him were full of grimy, dirty, wide-eyed men, all of them just as surprised as the two guards had been. They were all silent, too; one of them chuckled weakly, but they all held their breaths in apprehension. Eventually, one of them spoke up as one of the friendly rebels offered a hand.

"I presume you're on our side then, eh?"

"I suppose I am. What gave you that hint?" Parker asked, spitting blood from his mouth. He had hit the ground hard, and cut his lip a little. It was naught but a minor injury, just an irritation.

"You've got speed and stamina, I'll give you that," the prisoner smiled, showing rotting teeth as he leered. "You getting us out of here?"

"As fast as we can," Adrian answered. "Stew's got some sort of lockpick thingy..."

"We're itching for a jailbreak," another prisoner spoke up. "We know where the arms and the guns are, we're just waiting for the right man to come along!"

"Looks like our messiah has come after all," the rotten-tooth man smiled again. "You got a plan for this?"

"We _had _a plan," Parker sneered. "I think it's gone to shit now..."

"Let's just kill these bastards and get some fucking food!" one man in the back spoke up just as Stewart unlocked a massive cell. Suddenly, every single one of the prisoners cheered in unison, as the horde of dirty, unwashed men almost trampled Stewart in their bid for freedom. Two of them took the swords of the dead guards, and they all rushed out of the room as Stewart hurriedly unlocked the next cell.

"You guys go ahead, I'll finish up here and catch up!" he told them as another door swung open, and the cheers grew louder.

"Are we going somewhere?" Adrian asked, confused.

"You're going to fuck something up, aren't you?" Stewart joked, his eyes alight with a devilish fire. Adrian caught on quickly, and as soon as the next door opened he rushed out with the crowd, heading to god knows where. Parker found himself standing over the body of the slain guardsman until a hand clapped on his shoulder. Another cell had been opened, and as he turned around he saw the man with the rotten teeth.

"Boy. You need to get to the top of this building and put our flag up," he said matter-of-factly.

"F-flag?"

"They've still got Lord Walker's flag stored up on top, where all the others were. It's a good thing they didn't burn them. Just lower this bastard's banner and put ours back up," he explained, his breath stinking of onions and worse.

"What good would that do?"

"It's a dinner bell, you dumbass," the man cackled. "You ring it, and everyone comes running. You put that flag up, and our boys will be comin' up fast as lightning."

The man cackled once more, clapped Parker on the shoulder, and took off, joining the rest of the men. Parker found himself running as well, and suddenly realized that he had opened one hell of a dirty, unwashed can of angry worms.

The sounds of battle began to ring out throughout the armory. Swarms of men, armed and unarmed, were rushing through the hallways, shouting "_LORD WALKER_" or other phrases at the top of their lungs, or just plain yelling. There were no Antar guards to be seen; either they had been overwhelmed, or had fled. Either way, they would be outnumbered now; and if Parker could complete his objective, even more outnumbered.

It was difficult to find a viable pathway through the maze of the armory; he had to negotiate both a warren of stone tunnels and knots of screaming rebels, making sure that his badgeless cuirass was plainly seen, lest he be cut down by one of the bloodthirsty inmates.

At last he found one of the tower stairs; it was a spiral staircase leading up, up into one of the towers high above the armory. Parker prayed that this would have a flagpole up in it, and a spare flag. He had no idea where else he would find one, so he put his hopes into this one tower.

Halfway up, he found a window overlooking the courtyard and dared to glance down upon it. He was expecting some sort of melee down there...but not a full fledged battle.

The rebels had apparently found their armory and were clashing with loyalist soldiers throughout the courtyard, a mass of dozens of men smashing into one another and fighting with spears, swords, and even some mauls. There were bodies, too, a growing field of corpses of men from both sides piling upon the flagstones.

And just like that, the crossbowman was upon him.

The man had somehow heard him coming up the stairs, and Parker just barely raised his sword in time to parry the soldier's strike. He could tell that his enemy was more adept at using the hunting crossbow strapped to his back than he was at using the dented sword; the loyalist handled it awkwardly, and lost his grip when Parker beat down on the blade. He took his advantage then, sweeping the sword across the man's body and laying him low upon the stairs with a single powerful swipe. Although he had little skill with a sword, years of swinging a pickaxe had strengthened him and given him the power to use the weapon to slice through light armor.

At the top of the tower, one crossbowman held a lone sentry, looking rather frazzled as Parker made his entrance. The man didn't even try to resist; he flung his crossbow down, drew his sword, and tossed that over the edge of the tower.

"I yield, I yield, don't kill-"

"Get your ass out of this tower or I will," Parker growled, feeling rather antagonistic. The archer complied, dashing down the steps as quickly as he could. Parker wondered what fate awaited him at the bottom as he found the spare Ditch flags, brought them out, and brought down Antar's banner. He cut Antar's down and, fumbling a bit, reattached the Ditch banner and clumsily hoisted it up. It was difficult to do without instructions, but he figured it out quickly.

The flag rose high above the armory, visible to all nearby.

The old man had been right; like a dinner bell, it summoned a host of hungry men, hungry for killing and hungry for vengeance. This time they were inspired; they saw the banner, and knew what it meant.

That was the turning point of the night; Parker, exhausted and on the verge of collapse, knew that that was the moment that the Ditch was won once more.

VVVVV

From the towers of Crestan, one could see many different fires; to the east, Alex Tanner's army had encamped on the road leading back to New Connaught. To the southeast, Cymander's encampment was just barely visible, standing up on a well-defended hillside rising over the city plains. And directly to the south, farther off, the massive tent city belonging to the Kleisardathan faction was encamped, moving far more slowly than the other armies. Antar was still off to the west, but his threat was no less credible.

Everywhere Kleiner looked, there was death staring him in the face. And the volcano still rumbled, strengthening and weakening at random intervals and lighting up the northeastern sky. The sun was now a fading memory, as the massive blanket of ash overhead had blocked out all but a dim shower of light, just enough to provide daytime visibility. And the ash rained everyday.

Tomorrow, there would be battle. He knew that each army was close enough to engage in combat, after they had formed up. If it wasn't tomorrow, it would be the next day, maybe the day after. But sometime in the coming week, the hosts would meet, and their clash would make the battle before the Ditch appear like a minor skirmish.

"This is it, Tom. This is what we've come to," Kleiner spoke, not particularly to Thomas Brennan, who had found his way up to the battlements to look out upon the ashy plains of Crestan.

"You should get some sleep, my lord."

"Bugger that," Kleiner cursed. "This may very well be my last night. Presuming they don't fix that damn machine..."

"Perhaps luck will be on your side. You do not know," Brennan tried to be optimistic.

"I have a feeling. Will you stay up here for a while?"

"The troops are quartered and supplies are distributed. We need only wait for morning," Brennan reported.

"Good, good."

_Well, it's good that all of that is taken care of. Everything else, though..._

"We are ready, then."

"Aye, my lord. We are," Brennan acceded.

"We're sticking to the same strategy. I haven't made any changes to our plan," Kleiner told him. "Are all of our sergeants aware of the defensive strategy?"

"I've laid out all plans to them. Every commander knows what part he's going to play, my lord," he said. "They are ready."

"Tom, you're one hell of a reliable man. I'm glad to have served with you," Kleiner begrudgingly smiled. "It's been an honor."

"Now, don't sound so pessimistic, my lord," Brennan shrugged off the compliment with ease. "Tomorrow is yet to be decided."

"I fear it already has been. Look at us," Kleiner offered. "Look at our position."

"One does not break hardened walls so easily. Hardened men are the same. And we have both," Brennan told him.  
"If not tomorrow, the next day. Or the day after. But we will fall. And this banner will," Kleiner glanced up at the flag of Elias Kastner, fluttering proudly as ash swirled around it. "We are the last city to fly that flag, did you know that?"

"What about Thellden? Or Shadeshore? Not even North Driftmist?"

"The Thells are apt to stay out of the conflict entirely," Kleiner spoke bitterly. "And North Driftmist was ransacked, who knows what became of it. I know naught of Shadeshore."

"Your pessimism makes you assume much."

"Even in such a dark hour, you try to boost my spirits, Tom. I may be a burden for you, but I'm glad you're here," Kleiner acquiesced.

"Of course, my lord. I know you appreciate me."

"Come tomorrow, Tom, I will not expect you to die for me. If you think it is wise to surrender, then by all means, do so. Save as many of my men as you can," Kleiner told him.

"A captain goes down with his ship, my lord," Brennan told him. "It would be wrong for me to live while you die."

"A foolish and old-fashioned notion. I would rather you live and bear Kastner's memory onward. It is the last we have of the old vision that he tried to forge," Kleiner admitted. "I would prefer you live."

"If that is your wish, my lord-"

"It is my wish. And let us stop thinking about such dreadful topics. Tomorrow we will face death, and hopefully we will walk away free men. Let us enjoy what time we have, and pray."

VVVVV

"We strike there, and there. Quick, fast, and brutal. We will have the advantage."

It was nearly midnight, and despite the heavy ashfall outside, Darius Cymander had decided to summon all of his commanders together. Whether or not the weather would cooperate, he had planned a bold maneuver to take both Alex Tanner and the Kleisardathan force by surprise, and strike them where and when they did not expect.

"If the ash is falling, it will be an even greater problem...you intend to attack before dawn's light, that's risky enough. But do you realize how much farther you're taking this?" one of his captains questioned.

"I understand the risks this poses. But our enemies are just as strong as us, if not stronger, and I want to have the greater advantage. If we dispatch small forces of maybe five hundred men each, and hit their camps before dawn, we could slaughter thousands on either side and retreat before they even have a chance to hit back," Cymander explained.

"Tanner is already deployed," another captain pointed out.

"I'm aware of that. But he's positioned his auxiliaries and light cavalry on his left flank, both units that will put us at a disadvantage in open combat. If we eliminate them, the field will be leveled more."

"The plan has its merits-"

"And its disadvantages," the adamantly opposed captain pointed out. "I understand that what my lord is intending to do is good in its intentions..."

"Your advice is welcome, but I do not heed it. If you want victory, you need to take a risk. And I'm willing to throw the dice here," Cymander decided. "I leave it up to you two, Cullman and Levinsky, to organize your squadrons and move them according to the map."

The two captains, both old and grizzled and hard of feature, nodded their assent. The one who opposed most vocally was young and seemed to be rather untested in the ways of combat. He did not seem pleased by the verdict.

"You are all dismissed. Sleep well. Except for the two of you...you have work to do."

Once more, Cymander pointed out the veteran captains, and they nodded their assent once more, as if such risky actions were daily occurrences for them. Without any more than some hushed mutterings and well wishes, the group dispersed, heading out of the command tent as Cymander snuffed out the dim candles behind him.

The young one was the last to leave; however, he deviated from the rest. Instead of heading to the command quarters, as the rest of the leaders were aught to do, he departed to the Lady Kim's quarters, a large, sprawling section of lavish and colorful tents close to Cymander's sleeping quarters. For some reason, he desired to sleep separately from his own wife; whether it was for official or personal reasons, the captain could only guess. But he took full advantage of it.

The guard at the side area's main gate let him through without question; money was a great motivator, and the Lady Kim had paid him well to let her visitor through. Once he was inside, he had no problem finding her tent and then, by extension, finding her.

He parted the tent flaps to find it full of other women, serving girls attending to the Lady Kim's late-night needs. As soon as he entered, she bid them depart, and hurriedly they scurried away on command. As soon as the tent flap closed, he began.

"Your husband is an intelligent man. I have his latest plans," he reported to her.

"Do tell me."

He outlined the entire operation to her, sitting down by her bedside and detailing everything with vivid explanations. She seemed enraptured by every word he spoke; the more she knew, the better. When he finished, she smiled warmly.

"My friends will no doubt appreciate this," she thanked him.

"Of course, my lady. All in service to you, of course," he hastily bowed.

"I do wish the Archon had held onto life a little bit longer. I do not like dealing with his second in command, he is a vicious and conniving man," Lady Kim sighed, throwing the blankets off haphazardly.

Even though she had just recently turned thirty, Lady Kim had the look of a woman just entering adulthood, with little to tell for her age. That was especially true of her unclothed. Her body showed no signs of aging, skin soft and smooth and unscarred. Her hair flowed down her back like a black waterfall, spilling onto the soft linens of the bed where she lay. The young captain took it all in a graceful manner, leaning down by her bedside and holding her hand gently.

"You take everything in stride, Mr. Carson. I like that," Suwon smiled.

"Please, my lady. Call me-"

"I think that name will do for now. When the time comes, I will seek you out by your first name," she told him.

"Of course."

"Will you lay with me for a while?" she asked him.

"I cannot, I'm sorry. I'm not supposed to be out of my tent at this hour, it was only a special summons," he sighed, regretfully. "I apologize."

"Understandable, of course," she sighed as well. She was expecting to spend the night with him, but in her disappointment she covered her body once more as he stepped away.

"In due time, Cymander will be removed. It will happen," she told him.

"I'm sure you will make your father proud, my lady..."

"That is too far ahead in the future. Do not remind me about my father," she suddenly became defensive.

"I didn't mean to offend-"

"You didn't offend. Just...do not bring him up again," she sighed.

"I will remember that, my Lady. Good night, then," he bowed awkwardly. She said her farewells, and he backed out of the tent, hurrying into the night and using the shadows to cover his return.

It was an amazing deal; he brought Cymander's plans to her, she delivered them to the Kleisardathan camp via a courier, and in turn he was invited into her tent when he could sneak in. The rewards so far had been worth the trouble; but Kyle Carson wondered, foolishly, if she really loved him.

_She's taking advantage of me_, he thought sometimes.

_No, she does love me. Otherwise she wouldn't sacrifice her time and risk her secrecy for me_, he thought other times. He was conflicted, and the imminent battle did not help.

_After the fighting is finished, presuming Cymander still stands. Then I can turn my thoughts back to this._

If she really _did _love him, then all of his sufferings would not be worthless; after all, love is a powerful motivator. Should Cymander fall or be slain, the Lady Kim had her pieces set up to maneuver herself into control of the Moon's Eye, and she would have power over the city and its army. With luck, she would meet no resistance, and then she would take her lover as a co-ruler.

_It's a flight of fancy. Would she really risk all of that for a minor captain, a man without an ounce of noble or powerful blood?_

Whether or not she was using him as a pawn, or truly did love him, Kyle Carson would have to figure that out before she finished playing her pieces.

That would be an issue for another day, however. He had delivered Cymander's plans into his enemy's hands; now he only had to wait for the hammer to fall.

VVVVV

"Tanner and Cymander are the main threats," the hoplite captain pointed out. A broad-shouldered and brusque man, he only had one eye; like the rest of the Monophthalmi, his left eye had been burned out at age sixteen, leaving a grotesque cavity covered by a fabric eyepatch. Every single one of the Monophthalmi, from the lowest recruit to the Master Sergeant standing before the Xonos, had suffered this sacrifice, and had attained a rank in the most elite phalanx force of the Kleisardathan army.

"You point this out to me?" Mallistron inquired, raising an eyebrow suspiciously.

"They will be upon us before you know it. Both of them know to strike hard, and strike fast. Your attention is turned towards the city, and towards the westerners. I disagree with your plans," the Monophthalmi spoke.

Normally, the Xonos would be displeased with the man who dared raise a hand and a dissenting voice against him, but this hardened, elite soldier had earned his respect simply by becoming one of the elite hoplons; he would listen to the man. Besides, he was too tired to try to speak over his captains; he had spent the day interrogating the slave girl before she finally died of her torture, and the process of preparing his men for battle was an exhausting one.

"Perhaps so..."

"Our outriders suggest that Lord Antar is another week away," another captain spoke, his accent heavy, betraying him as a Greek from Earth. "He will not arrive in time for battle. And if he manages it, his forces will be exhausted and in no state for hard battle."

"I agree with that. He is not part of this battle. Our focus is on the other two. This Kleiner will hide behind his stone walls like a coward," the Monophthalmus spat.

"He will hide, but he is still a threat. The Lord Cymander stands directly to our right, I will agree that he is our main threat. His army is just as large and just as professional as ours," Mallistron conceded, feeling rather irritated. A dozen captains had been arguing with his battle plans, and although he was not a man to be trifled with, he had listened to them as they explained their reasoning. Most of them were logical, at least. If they hadn't been...

"Those blue cloaks flap prettily in the breeze. Let us gut those pretty lads and turn their cloaks red," the Monophthalmus leered, grinning wickedly as he spoke.

"The Lapiscloaks are just as good as your men in hand to hand combat, I would advise you to restrain yourselves, lest you become outmatched," the Xonos hissed.

"We are the best-"  
"Continue to think like that, and you'll find your head stuck under the blue boot of one of those 'pretty lads'," Mallistron hushed him.

"I will not be humbled by a man with a pretty co-"

Before the Monophthalmus could finish his rebuttal, the tent's doors parted and admitted a sweaty courier bearing a large scroll, apparently a large message. The symbol he bore was alien at first; it was the insignia of Lord Cymander, very plain on his doublet. One of the hoplon captains drew his blade, but the Xonos tapped his arm to instruct him to put it away.

"He's friendly."

"He's one of Cy-"

"He's not. Turncloak. Come here, courier," the Xonos ordered. The runner, slightly unnerved by his rather cold receival, pushed his way past a few of the disgruntled captains and approached the Xonos. He handed his package over and waited, standing between two hoplon sergeants as he waited for Mallistron to pore over the documents. The latter did so, taking his good time as he read everything carefully.

"This is from the Lady Kim?" he inquired.

"Y-yes, sir. Are you familiar?"

"Who isn't?" he asked, and several of the captains sniggered quietly. "I would like to become better acquainted with her, wouldn't you?"

"Er...of course," the courier began to blush out of embarrassment. The Xonos decided that needling him would be pointless. At least for now.

"Your Lady Kim was well acquainted with the Archon, was she not?"

"She provided him with information often, sir," the runner answered.

"Was it valuable?"

"Presumably," he answered firmly.

"Well, what we have here is valuable as is," the Xonos pored over the documents again. "I was not aware that Lord Cymander was this serious about an initial attack." He showed the papers to his Monophthalmus captain.

"What do you make of it?" he asked the one-eyed man.

"He plans to take us by surprise."

"Well, yes-"

"My men will crush these blue boys and send them running back in tears," the Monophthalmus vowed.

"I do not plan to relegate you to picket duty. You have a more important part to play," Mallistron told him.

"There is no greater honor-"

"You will crush plenty of blue boys," the Xonos told him, frustrated with his egotistical attitude. "I will give you the means. But you will wait for my order."

"Of course, my lord," the Monophthalmus begrudged, stepping back into line.

"I plan to intercept this ambush, though. Regular soldiers, in great force, will be enough to repulse or perhaps even destroy this probe," the Xonos thought aloud, never minding the courier standing in the midst of his assembly. "We will strike them as they move in on us. I do not plan to let them close to the camp."

"My phalanxes are encamped the closest. I can have them ready within an hour," one of the sergeants promised.

"You and Captain Ketras will have your forces ready. And have the horse pickets prepared for combat and skirmishing as well," the Xonos told them.

The two captains bowed and departed, heading out of the tent. Mallistron turned to the courier.

"Thank your lady and send her my warmest regards. I wish I could send her a little something else, but...I have a war to fight. Our dealings can wait," he told him.

"Of course, sir...I will tell her you send your regards," the courier bowed lightly.

"Tell her she's welcome to visit whenever she...pleases," he smiled, and several of the captains chuckled again. He was hoping that the courier would omit that, seeing as it was a jest. However, he chose that time to hastily leave, returning from where he came from quickly, most likely flushed and embarrassed.

"He is a puny boy. I would not trust him," the Monophthalmus spat.

"He'll bring the news back."

"Would you make love to the woman if she was brought here?" he asked curiously of his leader.

"I would make her _scream_," Mallistron grit his teeth, wondering how much joy it would bring him. Pain was pleasure for him, after all.

"My lord, are we dismissed?" one of the sergeants piped up.

"Of course, you are..."

The sergeants and captains dispersed, all of them bowing and mumbling their farewells, save for the Monophthalmus. He had been told to wait.

"You told me to stay."

"I did. I have something for you, befitting of your men," the Xonos told him, feeling sleep begin to wash over him.

"What is it?"

"Have your men ready by daybreak. After we engage Cymander's probe, you and your troops are to go into the city. Is that clear?"

"We will find a way," the Monophthalmus promised proudly. "We are men of steel and shadow. They will not see us."

"Be sure they do not. Sneak into the city, kill the commanders and men of power, leave the army leaderless. Do whatever you must," Mallistron ordered him.

"I will be proud to serve you, sir."

"Actions speak louder than words, Monophthalmus. Do as you're bid, and eliminate the men of Crestan. You will do me a great favor," he told the captain.

"I will break the tall lords and bring their army to its knees," he promised his lord.  
"Do that. Tomorrow we strike," Mallistron promised him. Tomorrow might be only skirmishes, and the day after might be light combat, but before the week was out, the battle would be decided.

And he planned to be the victor.


	30. The Battle of the Five Belligerents

**Hello internet! Exb here!**

**This took a hella long time to draft up. It's almost 11,000 words, so bear with me here. I also had to write the next two chapters because I always like to stay ahead, just in case.**

**REVIEW ANSWERS:  
HPE24: Reread a couple of chapters here and there in case you're forgetting things! There's way too much to reread the entire thing :P**

**BfheadGamer: One of the better ideas coming out of the Middle Ages.**

**EclipseWolf64: You're...quite...hyper. Hang on, I'll try to translate this into English :P**

**KentoTempura: I apologize, but I am not accepting OCs. I'd rather create my own set of characters because there are too many to be able to fit OCs in. Again, I am sorry about that!**

**VVVVV**

****James Kleiner was up long before dawn on the day of the battle. Coincidentally, it was the first day of July in the simulation; quite a memorable date, hard to forget.

The volcano spewed fire furiously, as it always did. The thick blanket of ash smothered the clouds and sun and the light blue sky, casting its dim shadow over the entire city. Ash fell lightly; blown by the wind, it found its way into crevices and cracks, tiny places where it would never leave unless brushed out by a diligent hand.

The camps had closed in on each other now; each were just slightly closer, now that back units had moved up. They were still quite far apart, but it left plenty of space for armies to deploy on the ashen plains before the city of Crestan. Those would be the killing grounds, he had predicted; upon that field of soot and pumice, young men would bleed and die for a cause most of them probably did not understand.

It was almost tranquil, standing upon Crestan's battlements at such an early hour, wreathed in near complete darkness. A single torch gave him enough light to see and gain his footing, but it was enough. The darkness gave him some peace and quiet.

Of course, something _had _to shatter that quiet.

Thomas Brennan's footfalls were what did that; as much as he misliked the news that Brennan often brought, he would find himself helpless without the man's efforts on his behalf. Brennan seemed to have ten different pairs of eyes and ears, for he heard and saw everything and delivered it in a timely, punctual manner.

"You're up early," Brennan invited himself up to the battlement, carrying a slice of bread with him. "I brought a small breakfast, in case-"

"I don't have an appetite, thank you," Kleiner dismissed his offering. "But I'm glad you came. I rarely wonder why anymore, I know why you come."

"All of our enemies, save for Antar, are deployed. There will be combat today, whether or not it is full-out battle we will have to see," Brennan told him.

"Do you have specifics?"

"I do not, I am afraid. We just know that everyone is in range of each other and are setting up for battle. They mean to fight upon the plain."

"That will give the Kleisardathans the advantage," Kleiner knew. "Their phalanxes are trained to fight in open spaces."

"Aye, but what about the ash?" Brennan posed.

"What about it? It's gritty, it's dusty, it gets everywhere. Like sand."

"Heavy ash like that is sure to slow movement down and disrupt formation. It's been falling for weeks now, it is at least a foot thick. We swept our camp, so we could not really tell how deep it truly was," Brennan explained. "But I can assure you, it's a heavy blanket."

"I suppose that is true..."

"Such an issue with movement and formation may give one of the others the advantage. If it comes down to pure iron and swordplay, the Lapiscloaks will carry the day," Brennan figured.

"That is not for sure."

"But if you know them, you know they are well-trained in hand-to-hand combat. Tanner has raised only regulars, and the Xonos' troops are made for fighting in formation. One-on-one combat will go to Cymander, I feel."

"We shall see," Kleiner mused. "We will...come the next few days, we'll watch it play out-"

Kleiner heard a quiet pop, and thought nothing of it, until he turned around to face Thomas Brennan. His closest advisor and second-in-command had a sword driven through his gut, and his face was a mask of confusion, pupils dilating and mouth half agape as if he wasn't aware that he had been stabbed. Then suddenly he was aware, and then his muscles spasmed and his eyes flew wide open and he began to fall, as the iron blade was drawn out of him from behind, slick with warm crimson blood from a fresh body.

And just like that, Thomas Brennan was perished.

Kleiner had difficulty believing what he saw for a moment; they had been casually conversing one moment, and now Brennan's body was laying in the doorway of the stairwell, collapsed into a bleeding heap. The man who stepped over it was easily distinguishable as one of the famous Monophthalmi, the elite sword-bearing bodyguards and personal soldiers of the Xonos Mallistron. He was marked by the eyepatch covering what would be, presumably, a grotesque and scarred crater where a dark brown eye would have once been. The murderer's sword was red and bloody, and he was making his next move towards Kleiner.

On instinct, Kleiner shuffled his feet back as the first powerful blow swung at his head; wearing no armor, he was much lighter than his attacker and able to step out of the way of the initial strike, but he had his back against a stone wall and would not be able to repeat the dodge. So he drew his own sword, ducking down as another blow swung level at his head, slicing through the air with ease. When he rose back up, he had his own blade out and ready to meet the challenging attacker.

Wearing no armor, Kleiner was able to dodge easily, but his opponent was only lightly armored as well, giving him both a silent step and speed. He rained swift, light, fierce blows down upon Kleiner, who was hard pressed to either shift his body or block the attacks, without getting a chance to launch his own offense. He was nearly pressed against the wall, but finally he was able to deflect his opponent's strike downwards against the banister of the battlements, and the force of the rebound knocked the Monophthalmus off balance.

Kleiner stepped forward and drove the iron forward, directly into his opponent. Without armor, the man was helpless; the cloth of his toga-like shirt parted as easily as butter, and his flesh gave little resistance. Just like Brennan, he was stabbed through the gut; his eyes widened briefly, as he was suddenly conscious of his own death, and then he collapsed as Kleiner withdrew his blade, pulling it out quickly.

He had been the only attacker.

When he came to his senses, Kleiner smelled smoke, burning, and he heard the clash of blades and the shouting of men down in the city. From a few different buildings within the walls, fire licked the hazy air and smoke rose to add to the noxious ash cloud above.

_There's combat. We're under attack._

Kleiner knelt by the perished body of Brennan, his boot stepping in a puddle of blood, whose he did not know. Redundantly, he checked the man's pulse, but there was no beat at all. The other man was dead as well, both slain in the same manner.

Footsteps pounded up the tower's stairs. Kleiner stood up, ready to engage more attackers, but the men climbing up the stairs were his own, some of them with bloody injuries.

"Lord Kleiner-"

"Tom Brennan's dead," he said breathlessly, kneeling back down over his slain comrade's corpse.

The men stopped short of the crumpled Brennan's body, snorting breathlessly and steadying themselves. "Oh..."

"What's happened?" Kleiner asked them.

"Monophthalmi, my lord..."

"I can see that," Kleiner said.

"They snuck into the city, sir. Three of the city councillors are dead and four of our captains are also slain. It appears they were targeting leadership positions," one of the men responded, more confidently and firmly, as if he knew what he was talking about.

"They snuck in?"

"Sentry guards never saw anyone enter the city, my lord," he added.

"Take me to the command headquarters. I need to get everything assembled," Kleiner told them, too exhausted to suffer through any more bad news at the moment.

The three soldiers, all of them his own men, escorted him back to the command tent set up at the center courtyard. All around him the city was in chaos; citizens, half-dressed or in their undergarments, were out in the streets, talking amongst each other in frightened whispers and desperately seeking information. Every guard post had double sentries now; the captains who were still alive were rushing about handing out their orders and organizing their confused men. It took Kleiner nearly thirty minutes to make his way to the Crestan courtyard.

Immediately upon getting his own self organized, he was besieged by a mass of questions and queries and concerns from every single one of the commanding officers under his hand. The captains, sergeants, lieutenants and even sentry corporals all had their own problems, and with Tom Brennan slain, all of the questions came to him.

Many of them were concerning security, although a lot of officers were simply asking him "_What the hell happened?"_. Truth be told, Kleiner wasn't so sure himself. Where he had been wide awake and energetic beforehand, all of his energy seemed to have been sapped out in the past half-hour, leaving him bleary and weary as he spoke to commanding officers on the courtyard green. The councillors of Crestan were demanding to see him, but they would have to wait. Military matters first.

After speaking to multiple commanders, Kleiner gleaned from his conversations that somehow, a large group of stealthy Monophthalmi had snuck into the city from somewhere, with the intent of dispatching persons of importance before sneaking out the same way they came. It had worked, to some extent; several of their targets were hit without issues, but one of them had managed to trip an alarm and at least thirty of the Monophthalmi had been left behind, now slain by Kleiner's troops. There was no count of the casualties amongst the regular men yet.

"Have double sentries posted on the walls and at every gate. All men are accounted for by their company commanders, and no one is to leave the city. The gates are barred and barricaded, is that clear?" Kleiner ordered one of his higher-ranking lieutenants.

In lieu of Lord Brennan's death, the only nobility now alive in the city were the Crestan city council, and a few minor lords who represented nothing but titles. The only ones with command experience were Kleiner, and the numerous captains under his hand.

"Your orders are clear, sir..."

"We are under a state of siege, now. We might not have attackers at our walls, but for all intents and purposes we _are _besieged," Kleiner told him. It was pointless, telling that to a lieutenant, but it served to reinforce his own beliefs. Without Brennan by his side, he felt strangely...

Lost. Like a child, wandering through a strange city, surrounded by captains and soldiers clamoring for orders and for help.

He felt strangely lost. And as he continued to hand out orders and try to manage the situation, he began to feel everything slipping away from his grasp. Slowly, but surely.

VVVVV

Lord Dwayne Cosstler was not the sort of man who was popular amongst the troops; he was what one would call an "old school" fellow, someone who was raised to train troops through harsh physical exercise and constant drilling. Alex Tanner's army was no stranger to training, but they were about as prepared for battle as a town militia was. Lord Cosstler had attempted to whip them into shape, but so far he had managed to do little more than earn the enmity of nine out of every ten of the regulars and recruits under Tanner's banner.

_They're farmboys and young kids. Not soldiers._

He had tried to organize them, and they _had _at least been able to understand rank and formation; they were an army, but a shabby one at that. Fit perhaps to take on a hedge lord's militia, or rural brigands, but not such mighty forces as the Lapiscloaks or the Kleisardathan phalanxes.

Dawn was still rising in the sky, the rosy light barely visible due to the massive cloud of ash overhead. The horizon was lit, but anything above was blocked by the blanket of debris rising into the sky, the one that rained ash and pumice constantly and made breathing a labor. Cosstler made his way past early morning campfires, receiving nothing more than an acknowledging nod from most of the camp cooks and sentries.

_They only begrudgingly respect me. I suppose I couldn't ask for more._

He was headed for the central command tent; most of the sergeants would be awake by now, and hopefully Tanner would be awake as well. Though, knowing the young lord, he would probably be quite contrary, especially if Cosstler walked in while he was...otherwise engaged.

Despite his lowly status, he was one of the top lords in Tanner's camp. The only one above him was Lord Eustace Kettleridge, an elderly Englishman with a penchant for strategic maneuvers. And he was sick with the scarlet run, something that had disabled him completely.

That left everything up to Cosstler.

A smattering of "my lords" followed his entry into the tent, and he nodded his assent to each one of them. Minor lordlings, most of them, interspersed with sergeants and corporals and the like. Only one approached him, one of the higher-ranking captains.

"My lord Cosstler, news. Lord Cymander has withdrawn his forces into a defensive position. He seems unwilling to take to combat, my lord," he spoke.

"He's not deploying? Last night we were almost certain he was-"

"Our scouts have reported that after the attack last night his forces have withdrawn to defensive positions. No deployment whatsoever," the captain insisted.

"That's not like Cymander. His overtures were so aggressive..." Cosstler wondered if this was part of a larger ploy. So far, he hadn't prepared himself to face combat; his main concern was training the troops. With Kettleridge now out of the action, it was up to him to save face and deploy Tanner's men, presuming the young lord wasn't up to doing so himself.

"I agree, sir. The captains are ready for-"

"I will consult with Lord Tanner and ask him if he wishes to lead his men. Have your troops ready for deployment on command," Cosstler told the lieutenant, who nodded.

_He begrudges his respect for me. They all do. They're not used to being part of an actual army, all of this training and drilling is foreign to many of them._

It was only a short walk to Tanner's personal tent, a large crimson square of fabric easily distinguished by its lurid colors. Cosstler casually opened the front flap, and immediately regretted stepping inside.

Of course Alex Tanner had company. When did he not? Why step outside into the ash and mud and wind and the smelly, unclean camp when he could let his commanders do the dirty work? As expected, he was lying in bed, with two girls with him, one on each side, completely naked under the covers. They huddled against him as the light seeped into the darkened tent from the flap, and Cosstler turned partially away to avoid any awkward glances.

"What is the meaning of this intrusion?" Tanner demanded, quite unsavory.

"My lord...the day has arrived-"

"The day? What damn day?" he asked, sitting up. The two girls, both slim brunettes, stayed prone on the bed, trying their best to hide from Cosstler. The lord had no interest in either of them, but he didn't try to approach either.

"The day of battle, my lord-"

"Isn't this for you to deal with, Lord Cosstler?" Tanner asked him.

"I figured I'd inquire with you. If you wanted to lead the troops, my lord," Cosstler said, feeling rather irritated with Tanner's immature demeanor.

He was always like that; his father having died in Lady Caullon's upstart rebellion, scaling her castle's walls, young Alex Tanner received the castle that his father died seizing, as a title and as property. However, he was the last person who deserved such an honorary title; he left everything, from monetary issues to recruitment, up to constables and assistants, people with skill and talent in such matters. Like most young men, Alex Tanner's only concerns were drinking, eating, fucking, and sleeping, and he did all four of those magnificently.

"Like I'm interested in that. Why'd you even bother asking?" Tanner asked, disgusted.

"I figured I would-"

"It's your job to organize the commanders. Get the troops deployed, and have them head for those blue cloaks..."

"Lord Cymander has retreated, my lord," Cosstler reported. "He is not deploying." Tanner was unfazed by the sudden turn of events. He casually stroke one of the girls' hair, letting his hand caress her before finding its way down under the covers.

"Then go kill the Kleisardathans. Face _someone_, if today is your goddam day," Tanner told him. As irritated as Cosstler was, he could not deny his orders; he was to turn against the late Archon's forces.

"Of course, my lord. I will assemble your forces for battle..."

"Post guards around the tent and make sure I'm not disturbed," Tanner added. "This is your battle, not mine. Bring me good news, Lord Cosstler."

"Of course," he said, bowing stiffly as he left the young lord to his playtime.

_What a disgraceful excuse for nobility. He's hardly worth any of the blood that's about to be shed in his name. A throne means nothing to him but riches and women. He will lose._

Despite all of his combined reservations, Cosstler went back to the command tent and dispensed his orders, in full hearing of the entire assembly. He knew they wouldn't like what he had to say; many of the captains, barely skilled in the art of leadership, dreaded this day of battle, and he could see it on the faces of many of the younger ones.

_Fear. They are afraid. And they have a right to be._

They were facing an enemy bigger than them, stronger than them, smarter than them, and more organized than them. What hope did a rabble of halberd and spear-bearing regulars have against a well-trained, disciplined Kleisardathan phalanx?

Nevertheless, Cosstler and his captains began to rouse the soldiers; slowly, surely, the camp awoke, men finding their way out of their tents sleepily and griping as they ate their meager breakfast that the camp cooks had prepared for them. While the army was rising, Cosstler sat down with several of the other leaders and went over plans with them.

"We'll form our spears up in front and put the rest of the men in reserve. Our formations leave much to be desired," Cosstler pointed out when one of the captains suggested amassing a massive square of men against Mallistron.

"That's because our soldiers leave much to be desired..."  
"Aye, I know," Cosstler acknowledged. "We've done all we can..."

"We're putting our spears up against their spears," a sergeant hastily pointed out. "Who's going to win in that?"

"Our crossbowmen can provide more accurate fire. Their archers will be at a disadvantage."

"Aye, but it's not the archers that will win the day," someone said. "It's the spears. And ours leave much to be desired."

Cosstler was tired of being thrown back at every turn; he really was _not _cut out to lead an army. He could cut it into shape, but when crunch time came he felt overwhelmed. And the bickering underlings weren't helping his situation.

"Do you have a better plan?" he challenged.

"No sir, I do-"

"Then shut your goddamn mouth. We'll put the spears up front, and if all else fails, the reserves can absorb the attack. Crossbowmen will cover, all will be in an arrow formation so we can cover our flanks-"

"If I may interrupt?"

Cosstler did not answer, but he saw the figure moving into his line of sight. It was that damned hooded man, the one that Tanner let make all of his important decisions. He never showed his eyes; the hood was always pulled down over his face, giving him a mysterious and rather unnerving aura. The serpentine advisor had finally shown up.

"The Lord Tanner has changed his mind. He wishes to address the army before battle," the advisor spoke, pushing his way past lesser lieutenants up to Cosstler.

"Does he now? And why'd he send you to tell me this? I'm not responsible for him," the lord challenged.

"He drew up a plan of battle. Allow me to see how it affects what you drew up," the advisor offered, and took a glance at Cosstler's plans. "They're similar...except Lord Tanner does not wish to cover the flanks. He wants all forces to push dead ahead, he does not believe that a flanking attack is feasible."

"Lord Tanner...Lord-"

Cosstler searched for words applicable to the situation. He was already frustrated enough, and now the stripling prince wanted a piece of the combat action.

_Damn him, he's going to screw this up...what is he thinking?_

"Lord Tanner told me to bring you his plan. I have delivered," the advisor spoke cordially.

"It's a foolish maneuver, he assumes too much..."

"I think Lord Tanner knows what he's talking about," the advisor countered.

"Yes, but our flanks-"

"Would you deny your liege's order?"

"I...no, no, I would not..."

Cosstler's spirits began to flag. He cleared his throat before continuing, letting his frustrations slip away for a moment.

"Of course not. I will honor Lord Tanner's strategies, the captains will change their battle plans accordingly," he said.

"That is glad news. In case you need reasoning, Lord Tanner believes that nobody will attack from the flanks or from behind due to the deep ash further north. His scouts have reported as such, and it would be unfeasible to launch an attack from there," the advisor explained calmly. He smiled, but his eyes remained hidden.

"I was not informed of any scouts..."

"Clearly you are lacking in information. Perhaps your organization skills need work?" the advisor suggested, smiling once more, more impishly than before.

_He jabs at me...he needles me because he knows I can't do anything_. _Was he sent here just to frustrate me more?_

Cosstler wanted to bite back, but the advisor was already taking his leave. He had delivered his message, there was no more to be said.

Over the next two hours, both camps prepared their armies. Cosstler, standing at the edge of Tanner's camp, could see activity in the Kleisardathan host roughly seven miles away; the smoke from campfires was growing thick, and ash was being visibly kicked up.

_They will be far more prepared than us. We are going up against the world's most professional army, with a middle-aged trainer and green captains to lead us._

The odds seemed grim, even more so now that Tanner had screwed up the strategic plans. The logic was barely there; even _if _the ash was deeper up north, around the right flank, that wouldn't stop a determined force from swinging around and taking the main body or perhaps even the crossbowmen.

He hadn't been expecting much logic, not from a thick headed kid like Alex Tanner, but he had been hoping that he had stayed out of the fight. It had apparently been too much to ask for.

When he returned to the main camp, it was a bustle of activity; men were gearing up for the coming battle, many of them over enthusiastic. They were expecting an easy victory; with so many soldiers in their camp, what could possibly go wrong? Many of them had no idea what they'd be facing, Cosstler knew that; he'd tried to prepare them for the task ahead, but few had any notion that they'd be throwing themselves onto the head of death itself. They did not understand what the Kleisardathans were, they did not understand how organized they were.

Many would not survive.

He finally found his way to the command tent where, to his surprise, Alex Tanner was standing dressed and cleaned, having changed his mind about sitting the entire fight out. He seemed rather extraordinarily happy, as if this day was a jovial walk in the park, albeit one flecked with ash falling from the sky. Upon spotting Cosstler, he lit up even more.

"Dwayne, it's good to see you well again! It seems like the men are all prepared!" he greeted his commander.

"They are getting ready. Within an hour, they will be assembled before the camp."

"I will speak to some of them beforehand. I have a speech that I have, ah, prepared," he fumbled as he snapped his fingers at his hooded advisor. The man produced a short scroll, no more than three hundred words, and handed it to Tanner.

"I wrote this in just fifteen minutes. Can you believe it? I was never good at writing, but I feel good about it!" Tanner exclaimed, re-reading the scroll.

Cosstler did not feel so good about it. Judging by the fact that he had _written _a speech down on paper, and had yet to memorize it, Tanner seemed rather unprepared. Either that, or he did not understand how to be a leader.

"I'm sure it will be inspirational, my lord."

"Are you kidding? This shit is gold! What'd they used to call gold? Budder, or something like that? It just came to me, I remember how that guy used to be really popular and then he just sort of fell by the wayside," Tanner began to ramble, fumbling with his speech. Nobody else seemed to know what he was talking about, so he fell silent, handing the scroll back to his advisor and stretching awkwardly.

"You know, maybe I'll just come up with something on the fly. I'm sure I'll think of something!" he changed his mind. Cosstler was obliged to nod, pretending to be supportive of his lord. He was beginning to dread the day; in another hour the army would be reading, and then it would face its brutal Kleisardathan reckoning.

The hour passed swiftly; Cosstler spent much of it organizing the various captains, ushering them on to attend to their duties and assemble their battalions for battle. Slowly, each battalion marched its way to the front, forming up in the massive square that was detailed in the battle plans. It was an ugly sort of square; mismatched colors, various weapons, men of all shapes and sizes and many of them poorly armored or dressed. Their formations were tight, at least; that counted for something.

_The training taught them that, at least. It'll help, though not much._

Cosstler rode with Tanner and his escort to the forefront, where the last of the battalions were falling into line. It was close to ten o'clock now, and the ash was beginning to fall once more, lightly but picking up pace. As the last of the squadrons settled into line, the escort reached the front and stood on the smooth slope, facing west.

Five miles away, the Kleisardathan force stood. It was a solid group of white, 140,000 spears glinting in what little sunlight seeped through the clouds. They vastly outnumbered Tanner's forces; the young lord had apparently failed to realize this.

_We have about a hundred thousand total, if you throw in sentries and reserves. That's still less than their main force, and that's not even counting their own camp followers and reserves. How does he expect to win this?_

Cosstler wanted to hope that this was a dream as Tanner dismounted his destrier and proudly marched to the very front, before turning around to face his massive assembly. Only a few would hear him speak, but their cheers would spread down the line. Soldiers cheered for no reason other than to boost their spirits; it warmed them when their limbs turned cold, and gave them some reason to celebrate their life before they faced certain death.

"Men! My men, my good men! I had a speech ready, but...well, it wasn't very good. So I stand here before you, and I'll give you something to fight for!" he began. He was greeted with a rousing chorus of cheers, obligatory.

The efficiency of his speech would be determined by how loud the last cheer was; if it shook the earth and rattled the skies, it meant that he had actually found the right words. If not, well...at least he tried.

_That matters so little._

"These foreign men come from a distant land, a place many of you probably haven't heard of! Do you know why they come! They come to take our lands, to steal our gold, to rape _our _women!" Tanner cried, and his anger and shout was echoed.

"Well, today we stop them. Those pretty boys over there in their fine ranks, they underestimate us! They don't have our fighting spirit, our bloodlust!"

Another cheer. Cosstler almost wanted to shake his head in defeat. They had already lost because of a few hubris-laced words.

"They don't have what it takes to be a real man! A real man does not dress prettily and march in a tight line! A real man wields the axe and the mace and charges at his opponent, unstaggered by fear! You're real men, so show it!" he ordered them, and more cheers rose up. Louder, stronger, braver, more foolish.

"Take their lands, steal their gold, rape their women! You go out there and crush them, and you'll have it all! Ale to drink, wine to swallow, food to eat, pretty girls to fuck! And who doesn't want that, eh!?" Tanner asked them, and now they laughed.

_They laugh in the face of death. It takes bravery to do that, I'll admit._

"If you want that, you've gotta fight! So go out there...and kick some ass! Fuck em over, and you won't regret a thing! Bleed, and bleed them! KILL!" Tanner was at a loss for words at the end, so he said the first thing that came to mind. And apparently it was the catalyst he needed. The very words "kill" and "rape" were enough to incite man's primal instincts, and the crowd roared at the very thought of such spoils. They more closely resembled an armed mob than a true army.

As the mass began to move forward, disorganized like a wave of untameable water, Cosstler was forced to move along with it. Every commander, every soldier, every musician who had began to pick up a steady, doom-foretelling drum beat, was walking towards a maw of death.

Cosstler did not hesitate to walk with them. What had to be done, had to be done.

VVVVV

The Xonos Mallistron watched his foe form up, five miles away, and waited patiently for their battle cry to reach his ears and for the mass to begin surging towards him. When the cluster of one hundred thousand ill-trained peasants and levies began their attack, quite foolishly he thought, he turned his white mare around to face the 140,000-strong killing machine standing behind him.

In comparison to Tanner's rabble of bloodthirsty, rape-hungry savages, the Kleisardathan force was completely still, hundreds of phalanxes made up of five-hundred men each, all wearing the same armor and bearing the same massive pike. It looked like a true army, not a hastily-cobbled mass of recruits. And they were all waiting for the command.

"You see that flood of ragged men coming down that hill. They'll tread through the same ash as you, choke on the same dust as you, bleed and suffer and die just like you. But there's one thing separating each and every one of you from them," he began as he rode up the front line. "You are men of Ais Kleisardathos. You are not men of Connaughtsshire, or Reinhardt, or anywhere else. You bear in you the blood of the first man!"

"Ais Kleisardathos, kaizmoetah deej gow mahmahkjah!" came the reply, from 140,000 men who were timed perfectly. It was just like the script for a play; the prologue was beginning, and soon the first act would commence. The stage was set, and the first players were already moving.

"They'll come straight at you, no tricks or deceit! Hold your spears steady, let their flesh find your points, and keep your ranks. This is where all of your training pays off! Let them bathe in fire and death!"

"Ais Kleisardathos, kaizmoetah deej gow mahmahkjah!"

He turned his horse around as he rode back down the ranks, watching Tanner's men draw ever closer across the flat plain. The ash was about a foot thick, and their speed was hindered as such. It would prove to be a challenge, but not an obstacle for his well-trained hoplites.

"Men of the South!"

"Ais Kleisardathos, kaizmoetah deej gow mahmahkjah!"

"Forward MARCH!" the Xonos shouted, as loud as he could, and then the drums began to beat. Their rhythm was matched by the pounding of 140,000 hobnailed sandals marching forward in step. Pikes dropped down, parallel with the ash, and 140,000 shields locked together, in marching formation. Phalanxes passed by the Xonos as he stood atop his horse, watching them advance. He was far too critical of a man to play a part in the actual battle; he would have to stay behind and observe, even though it would give him no greater pleasure than to swing his sword through flesh and bone.

_It's for my own personal safety. The men understand_.

Slowly, surely, marching to the percussive booming of the hollow drums, phalanx upon phalanx marched forward, supported by less valuable peltasts, _xiphos _skirmishers, and archer battalions. The skirmishers and light infantry were less valuable, of course; they weren't fully-trained soldiers, and their job was relegated to that of support. But like every soldier, they played their part in the battle.

The two forces slowly approached one another, the shining armored squares of the Kleisardathan force steadily walking the distance, while Tanner's ragged mass surged forward in a bare run, followed by groups of crossbowmen and supported on the flanks by skirmisher cavalry.

_He brought horsemen. Those might be a bit of an issue, but there aren't enough to do any damage. At the least they'll be an annoyance_.

Ash fell gently from the sky.

Somewhere, a hawk cried out, shrieking as it soared on intangible wind currents.

The giant black clouds loomed overhead, ever growing, hurtling their petrous debris high into the clear blue sky cloaked by the shadowy mass of atramentous ash.

May miles away, on the dark horizon, the volcano belched fire and flame in its unholy anger, casting a hellish light upon the shadowy, ash-covered lands around it.

A soft wind stirred the ash-choked trees and crafted small dunes out of the gray dust.

Surrounded by camp attendees and generals, the Xonos watched. He heard, saw, smelled, felt, and tasted so many things right before the clash happened.

And then it did.

The first line of Tanner's troops had faltered slightly, realizing that they were charging directly at a line of sharp iron points. But their comrades behind them pushed them on and, slowly, chaotically, the first several ranks ran straight into the spears, many of them pushed forward by their friends and impaled on the pikes. The iron ran straight through armor and flesh as if it were paper, piercing both and painting the pikes.

But as the first ranks piled on, the phalanxes became overwhelmed, and more of Tanner's man rushed forth, obviously not discouraged by the slaughter of their comrades in front of them. The hoplites, their pikes too unwieldy to move quickly, were unable to intercept and spear new targets, and a fair number of them were hacked down as Tanner's barbarians seeped into the tight formations. As the first row of phalanxes began to fall apart, as the hoplites were forced to draw swords and engage in melee, the second row prepared for the onslaught.

It was designed to work that way; the men in the front row knew that they had a fair chance of dying, and they embraced that fact. They were proud men of Ais Kleisardathos, their blood passed down from the first man.

_He is a legend. There is no proof that we are descended from Willheim Curtisimo, but I believe in it. We are the of his blood, the first man on this earth._

He felt satisfaction as he watched the combat. It was satisfying, to see other men suffer at the hands of his own. They died, they screamed, they fell onto the ground and writhed in pain, and deep within it satisfied Mallistron.

_Pain always does that. Especially pain of the foe. A foe's suffering is my greatest pleasure._

And his own men were holding their ground well enough. They, too, found a foe's suffering pleasurable, although it was for a tactical, not a personal reason.

They were proud to let their hot blood spill upon the ground, and in this case ash, if it meant victory in the end. And so as the first rank dissolved, chewed up by the wanton slaughter that Tanner's levies inflicted, the second rank prepared its spears and absorbed the newcomers.

Now that the initial charge had struck home, the _xiphos _rushed forward, in squads of four, to support and protect the phalanxes. The masses of hoplites would do well at stymying charges and pushing back their attackers, but the _xiphos _were meant to keep lone wolves from nipping at the edges of the vulnerable phalanx. They were light infantry, armed with only a small shield, a sword and leather armor, but they were fast and agile and worked in close-knit squads, able to support the main body as it pushed forward.

The Xonos noticed that they were gaining ground; slowly, as Tanner's men were cut down in droves, the phalanx army pushed forward, their banners rising proudly overhead and the drums beating to spell the doom of many a young man gutted by spear or hacked by sword or trampled by sandal-clad foot.

The horsemen of Tanner's army darted around the main body, throwing their spears and avoiding engagement with the peltasts who were trying to ward them off. For the first time, probably due to the fact that it was less of an army and more of a churning mass, Mallistron noticed that Tanner had neglected to cover his flanks and had left each side, as well as his crossbowmen, exposed and open to fire and attack.

_How is the boy that foolish? Does he know NOTHING!?_

Several of the commanders were noticing the same thing, as Mallistron saw the banner of the Monophthalmi waving proudly above their still-coherent phalanx, moving deeper within Tanner's army and cutting down dozens of his ill-equipped levies.

"The boy has no flanks on his force," someone observed scoffingly.

"He's exposed! My lord, sound the trumpets to have the peltasts move in and strike! He's exposed!" one of his captains urged him.

"Strike him right in the side, that'll teach that little bastard," another cursed. But the Xonos would have none of it.

It was too obvious. How could anybody be so neglectful of their formations? Tanner was no experienced commander, sure, but even he had to know about military formations, and his commanders were certainly well-versed in such manners. So why would he blatantly disregard such strategy?

"My lord Xonos, now is the time to strike..."

"It's too obvious," Mallistron spoke, surveying the carnage and the clash beyond. "It's a trap, it feels like a trap."

"It's an opportunity waiting to be seized!" another urged him.

"Too obvious," he snarled. "There could be an entire force waiting in those trees behind his camp, waiting for us to spring the damn bait," the Xonos thought aloud.

"My lord?"

"Not even a fool would leave his flanks exposed like that. There's something wrong here," Mallistron seethed.

"Something wrong?"

"Signal the advance to halt. Have the archers continue to fire and keep the phalanxes in defensive positions. Not another step forward!" the Xonos commanded, suddenly feeling insecure. He watched with anxiety as the clash below continued, now mostly reduced to hand-to-hand combat. A few phalanxes continued to move forward, smashing apart pieces of Tanner's army as they desperately tried to fight the tide of spears, with disastrous results. Many were gutted brutally by the hoplites as they drove their ironshod pikes forward with no mercy; others were felled or knocked down and ended up trampled by the endlessly marching phalanx.

The trumpets sounded, the screeching wooden trumpets made out of dry jungle wood from the south, the ones that were unique to Ais Kleisardathos. The phalanxes took a minute to stop, but all of them did, and retained their formation as their captains led them into their maneuvers. The drumbeats helped them establish their new defensive positions as they halted all forward movement.

VVVVV

Down on the plains, struggling in ash and soot, Tanner's troops attempted to renew their offensive. Led by a few endeavoring captains, including Lord Dwayne Cosstler, they were surging up against the phalanxes once more, now that the enemy had stopped.

Cosstler himself was attempting to organize spearmen into an attacking line, something that was nearly impossible to do in such a chaotic situation. Everything had gone wrong; many of the levies, who had been excited for the prospect of battle and its spoils, had now soiled themselves and had taken a serious hit to morale, having seen such carnage at the hands of the Kleisardathan spears.

Cosstler was desperate to get the levies back into the action; already some of the groups were breaking apart and fleeing. The Kleisardathans had stopped their forward momentum, and reignited the fighting spirit of some of the soldiers temporarily, but those men had tried to dash themselves upon the wall of iron and had broken, fled from the death and the blood. Many more were now trying their hand at cracking the phalanxes; but it wouldn't work.

Now that the Kleisardathans were well dug into their defensive positions, without having worry about moving through the ash, they were holding off any attack without issue, jabbing their spears forward and gutting anybody foolish enough to charge straight at them. For those who were able to infiltrate the ranks, the _xiphos _finished them off.

When the spear line seemed ready, Cosstler gave the order and they pushed forward, as recruits ahead of them broke themselves against the line of pikes and fled. The flight of the men in front of his troops made it difficult for his spears, already shaken by the carnage surrounding them, to advance. The ash had been churned into the ground by so many thousands of feet, mixing with blood and sweat and other liquids to take on a strangely discolored gray.

The iron heads began to clash, clanking against one another as the spears collided. The Kleisardathans, as well trained as they were, had the definite advantage. They thrust their pikes forward with deadly accuracy, spearing men like fish in water, while the advancing spearmen did little to dent the phalanx. One or two hoplites fell, unlucky victims of lucky thrusts, but they had the advantage, and Cosstler watched in dismay as his carefully cobbled spear line fell apart.

He found himself falling back with the men, slowly at first, and then running to catch up with them, hoping to pull them back together. As he turned back around to face the phalanxes once more, exhorting his men to rally, he saw something strange.

Miles away, behind the Kleisardathan line, something, _something _was kicking up dust and ash, and a _lot _of it.

The spear line had collapsed now. Everyone had collapsed.

Tanner's troops had bashed themselves against Mallistron's men, and had failed. The retreat was almost full now. The crossbowmen still fired, but they had taken heavy casualties from enemy archer fire, and their morale would soon falter too.

Cosstler felt helpless. In despair, he began to shuffle back towards Tanner's camp, as the woody warhorns of the Kleisardathan force began to call out again, and their phalanxes moved forward.

And then another horn joined the call.

Cosstler had never heard it before; it was more like a screeching sound, less like a trumpet or any other warhorn. He looked around for the source of the sound, but he didn't have to look far to find it.

It came from the dust cloud.

Only four miles away, on the flat plain below, column upon column of massive boars padded across the grayish ash, stirring up a massive cloud of dust as they charged straight towards the reserves of the Kleisardathan army. They grew closer and closer, easily visible from the gentle slope that Cosstler was positioned upon. There must've been hundreds of the tusked behemoths, each at least twelve feet tall and mounted by a man with a lance. Sure, that lance could have done some damage, but those _tusks _were what made the beasts ferocious. They bellowed and stampeded towards their targets, driven by some unearthly rage.

And when they crashed into the rear, it was like a tidal wave smashing through a wall.

Even from where he was, Cosstler could see the carnage as the peltasts turned around to face this new terror. The shrill warhorn screeched loudly again as the beasts trampled any man that stood before them, crushing them beneath powerful feet or tearing them to pieces with vicious ivory tusks.

The phalanxes were turning around now to face this new threat; Tanner's broken force was forgotten, the boars now their primary concern. The massive bodies of hoplites moved quite awkwardly, attempting to shift ranks and rows as they tried to reform before the creatures reached them. The mighty beasts would not slow down for anything; spears and darts pierced them, and some of them fell, but many continued pushing forward, rending men to pieces with swings of such wicked tusks.

Cosstler tried to exploit this sudden change of events; he wanted his men to rally at the sight of the carnage, to gain hope in the suffering of their opponents. But the regulars, the levies, the poor peasant recruits were broken now. They had seen their fifteen minutes of fighting and brutal carnage, and now they had fled, putting steel behind them and exchanging it for the safe promise of camp's comforts. Only the crossbowmen remained, and they were attempting to rain bolts upon the phalanxes as they turned around. The enemy archers were being torn apart, they could not respond.

Chaos ruled. And on the edge of the forest behind Alex Tanner's camp, a fourth belligerent waited.

VVVVV

The Xonos Mallistron watched in dismay as his great army crumbled to pieces. The boars had come out of nowhere, their advanced hidden by a series of hills close to the city. Hundreds of them, columns of great beasts, had charged into his ranks and were tearing his army apart. He had sent reserves forth, more and more hoplites and _xiphos_, but it would not get there in time. His grand army had been broken, and now he would be put on the defensive as he was vastly outnumbered.

He knew who those boars belonged to...he knew who had planned this.

"Those banners are Reinhardt," a hoplite captain pointed out. "It's Antar!"

"Bugger him, how the hell did he sneak up on us like that?"

"It's a lost cause, I tell you, pull the men back and defend what we have-"

The captains railed on like clucking hens, each of them as useless as the next. The Xonos stood stock still, silent, watching as his army was shredded by tusks and trampled by great hairy feet. Phalanx after phalanx dissolved into blood and gore as the close-packed formations were slaughtered by the monstrosities. Those captains who possessed any inkling of intelligence had spread their men out, to reduce casualties. Those who did not had doomed their hoplites to a gruesome death, packed into tight formations like sardines in a canister.

"My lord Xonos, we must pull back..."

"Damn it all, you think we can pull back out of this?" he challenged the captain who approached him.

"We're losing too many men, my lord!"

"And you think those beasts will let us retreat in orderly fashion!? Do you?" the Xonos spat, feeling the urge to backhand the bastard rising.

"It's a suicide charge, those beasts won't stop until they're dead or until we are," a smarter sergeant pointed out.

"Damn this Reinhardt trickery..."

"My lord, our casualties are vast!"

"And they'll be even greater if we follow your damned advice," the Xonos rebuked him angrily. "Put the damn boars down, and then we pull back."

"The troops are shattered. They will not be organized, and if Tanner decides to attack again, they may break," a deep-voiced man pointed out.

"They will not break. They are soldiers." Mallistron wanted to believe this, but he knew that every man felt fear. And nothing inspired fear like death and carnage.

"Have them reform, my lord-"

"Reform? They're under attack!" Mallistron spat at the captain.

"But they'll put the boars down before long, my lord, and then we can reform them, before Cymander decides to throw his cards in..."

The Xonos had not considered Cymander yet, seeing as he had been thoroughly shocked by the previous night' engagement, but all of his hopes that the man would stay out of the fight were shattered when another war cry, a deep brass trumpet, echoed across the ashy battlefield.

He turned to see the line of blue forming up three miles away, slowly melting into a solid wall, and his stomach sank further and further with each passing second as he watched his offensive break like a wave upon a shore.

VVVVV

Darius Cymander rode with his men partway out onto the plain, as thousands of them streamed out of the camp in semi-organized columns, plowing their way through the ash to get at Mallistron's embattled, battered force. The boars were falling now; the timing had been almost perfect. He had let the Kleisardathans struggle with the mighty beasts before sending his men in, to avoid suffering mass casualties at the hands of the berserked creatures. And now that Mallistron's shaken phalanxes were awkwardly reforming, the time had come to strike.

He could throw more men, in sure. But the greater two-thirds of his army was crushed, forsaken just like Lord Tanner's. The latter's army no longer even resembled one; it was a mob of fleeing men, still streaming back to their camp, barely visible up on that hill so far away. Their crossbowmen and a few brave groups of spearmen remained, the only presence of Tanner left on the bloody battlefield.

About half a mile from the battlefield, where battle horns rang as the Kleisardathans desperately scurried into new defensive formations, Cymander stopped, as did his captains and attendants. He could not take part of the battle, it would be too risky; he would relegate himself to watching it close at hand, prepared to issue new orders should it be necessary.

The blue wave surged forward, and just as the Kleisardathan phalanxes turned to meet it, they collided. Unlike Tanner's bold but raw recruits, the Lapiscloaks were trained soldiers, and they knew how to avoid the sharp points of the pikes and try to worm their way into the enemy formations. Their attack did not break or halt, but it began to seep into the enemy's line, cracking them apart like a nut shell.

_They only have maybe fifty thousand soldiers left. They've lost nearly ⅔ of their troops_.

Cymander noted this and remembered it; his forty thousand Lapiscloaks would be roughly evenly matched against the enemy, as his own archers were engaging Mallistron's up on the slope.

He had everything in his hands now; his Lapiscloaks were deploying, his enemy was falling apart, and Tanner was done for.

And then came the fourth, and last battle cry.

It was not a horn, no, nor any instrument of any kind that Cymander had heard before. As steel rang against steel and arrows flew through the gloom, a screech rent the very air and sounded in every corner of the battlefield, shaking the trees and the ash and splitting ears. So many men either stopped in their tracks or fell over, clutching at their ears and shouting or yelling or crying, each of them inaudible beneath the shriek.

It lasted for nearly half a minute, sounding like a pack of thousands of coyotes howling from the forest behind Tanner's camp. Cymander stopped the men passing them and had them regroup, and ordered his attendants to sound the horns for reforming and retreat.

He hadn't the foggiest idea who the newest contender was, until the forest came to life.

Not literally, of course, but with movement. But it looked like the entire woodland was springing into life, with so many figures streaming out of the trees. Cymander's men were now pulling back, reformed into their squares as hastily as they had done so before the battle. Every one of them was as confused as their lord, but not until the figures grew closer did Cymander truly see what he was facing.

Tens of thousands of small figures raced over the ridge of Tanner's camp, overtaking the camp itself as they swarmed. Those of Tanner's men who were fleeing or still fighting were overtaken as well, crushed by the tide of men. Cymander saw them as human beings, soldiers in armor bearing crude swords and halberds, but something was off about them.

"Pull the men back. Don't worry about the phalanxes, we've got a bigger problem," Cymander told his banner-bearer, who also bore the command horn. As the sergeant blew the signal to pull back in orderly fashion, Cymander withdrew a looking-glass from his surcoat and placed it to his eye, focusing it on the host swarming over Tanner's hill.

What he saw almost made him drop the eyeglass in horror. What charged down the ridge towards Mallistron's forces might have _once _been human, but no longer. All of them were bone, skeletons of warriors past, armed with crude steel and obsidian weapons and bearing iron armor. There had to have been tens of thousands of them, along with strange, tall black figures with purple eyes and piglike monsters bearing golden swords and axes and bellowing ferociously.

It felt like a dream, it truly did. Cymander wanted to pinch himself, to wake up, to wake up and face a _real _battle. A true battle between men would have been welcome; that would be reality, what he had been trained to face. This was a nightmare, a nightmare come to harsh life, and for the first time, Cymander felt truly afraid. He felt like a small child facing the terrors of his imagination, only those terrors had become real and had taken form and were now facing him, real as flesh.

This was the army of nightmares. And Cymander watched helplessly as it smashed into Mallistron's men, unfazed by the sea of pikes focused against them.

_Those spearheads won't do anything against bone_, Cymander knew. Maybe a lucky hit would take one of the monsters in the skull, or one of the hoplites would be smart enough to use his shield to bash his opponent, but the phalanx's tactic was completely outmatched. Within minutes, they would be overwhelmed.

"Lord Cymander. We need to go."

Someone tugged at his arm. The looking glass, squished up to his eye, fell away. He couldn't raise it up again, he didn't have the strength, but he watched the slaughter envelop the battered phalanx upon the plain, all of his attention fixated upon that.

"My Lord!"

"What!?" Cymander finally snapped out of his moment, turning away from the carnage to see his standard-bearer, the last of his attendants still standing with him. The flow of soldiers had almost ceased, with only a few companies still pulling back.

"We need to return to camp, my Lord. Pull back, you said," the standard bearer patiently reminded him. The lad couldn't have been older than seventeen or eighteen, and yet he was the last man attending upon Cymander. The latter turned back to the carnage only briefly, entranced by it, and then realized that he had to leave.

"Yes. I'm sorry, I was..."

"Thinking, my lord, of course. You can organize a defense once you're back safe, my lord," the standard bearer finished.

_Not what I was going to say. But let's go with that_.

VVVVV

The Xonos Mallistron watched his army crumble to pieces upon that plain. Smoke and fire rose from Tanner's camp as it, too, was overrun, and his men disappeared under the wave of undead.

It was unearthly, the scene that presented itself; Mallistron and his captains could only watch in horror as the better part of their grand invasion force was consumed by the horde of monsters, their spears near useless against constructs of bone. Even the brave, staunch Monophthalmi fell, one by one, to the wicked swords of that undead army. His elite unit, the best of his hoplites, dead like all the rest. Those few who had been able to flee streamed back into camp broken like he had never seen them before.

He had seen faces like that, on his enemies of course. Weak city states and kingdoms that had fallen to his sword in the southern campaigns, he had seen those faces there on surrendered soldiers and enslaved foes. But never did he imagine that he would see such broken spirit from any of his own soldiers, especially not the hoplites. If they had been fighting men, he would have berated and punished them severely. But he had not the heart to do so; having heard the shrieks and the cries and the horrific sounds of slaughter below, the part of the Xonos wanted to join them, to flee the nightmare in the valley and return to a better place.

_It would be better if we were fighting all of Antar's host now. At least we would be fighting men_.

For a short while, Mallistron truly feared that the undead army would regroup and charged up the hill towards his encampment, but they seemed to stop as soon as his own force was destroyed. Down in the vale, many of the skeletons contented themselves to seeking out the wounded and brutally dispatching them, creating a pitiful cacophony of injured soldiers begging for mercy before being put out of life. The Xonos could barely stand to hear the cries of his own men begging for their lives, but he watched as the massive host regrouped and formed new formations, apparently with the intent of going on the defensive.

_Whoever leads them, expects us to attack. That is a fool notion._

The Xonos knew when he was beaten; he had less than 20,000 hoplites left, and about double that in peltasts and skirmishers. Against such a mighty army, and Cymander's still-present force, he would be crushed completely.

The Xonos made his way back to camp a broken man, exhausted and bedraggled. Though he tried to keep a straight face, everything had turned against him and for the first time in his life he just wanted to go _home_. All notions of glory and honor that had been sought before were gone now, crushed by an army of reanimated dead.

If they weren't going to pursue him today, he had a chance to slip away. He would have to make it quick, but if he could gather fifty or so of his loyal sergeants and captains and leave in the middle of the night, he would be able to escape.

_No. That's not the honorable way._

He would be choosing the path of the weak if he fled. He would leave all of his men behind, and be ashamed for the rest of his life. The very fact that the thought occurred to him was enough to disgust him.

_No. No fleeing. It's time to stay and fight._

Come morning, come fight or flight, the Xonos did not intend to leave his army, no matter how battered it was. They were not beaten until he was slain; and he did not intend to die yet.

VVVVV

"You...you were just here...why are you back like this!?"

Alex Tanner felt like a caged animal, struggling away from the horrors in front of his bed, hoping that they were nightmares.

It was all a dream, he wanted to think, it was all just a dream...

But the man standing before him had been attending to him for six months; an advisor, an assistant, and now a turncoat. He was intimidating enough, with his dark grey hood and even greyer robes. But it was the tall black figures surrounding him that were truly frightening. No matter where he looked, they were there, nearly brushing the ceiling of the tent, their eyes a lurid purple color and devoid of emotion, their arms long and spindly and balled up into fists. They had already taken his two girls away, and judging by their screams, had already disposed of them.

Whatever these things were, they had come without warning. A shriek rent the air while Tanner had been receiving pleasure from one of his girls, and before he knew it the camp was being overrun by figures from the most hideous of nightmares. Skeletons, too, as well as these black demons, and pig-like creatures bearing golden weapons and snarling angrily, cutting down every man they fell upon.

And they were led by none other than his closest advisor.

"Well, I'm back with friends. I suppose that's the answer you're looking for?" he shrugged, obviously enjoying toying with Tanner.

"You served me-"

"The key word there is _served_. Nice use of the past tense, too," he leered from beneath that hood.

"I paid you, I helped you, I honored you..."

"And it was useful, for a time. But my true master has called me, and my duty lies with him. You wouldn't begrudge me that, would you?" he asked pitifully, attempting to seek mock sympathy.

"You were in my service-"

"You're slow to understand things, aren't you?" the advisor growled, and flipped back his hood to reveal those purple eyes. He was glad to see the surprise in Tanner's boyish face; it made the moment all the more meaningful. "I never truly served you."

"You spoke an oath-"

"Oaths mean nothing to those of us who are beyond you, human. What little does your oath mean now?" the Enderborn asked, and gripped Tanner around the throat with a fist strong as iron. The boy began to choke and rasp, his legs kicking as he was lifted up into the air.

"My oath meant nothing. The time to purge this world of your stinking filth has come, and I'm starting with _you_."

There was a sickening crunch as the Enderborn's fingers connected, and Alex Tanner was no more.


	31. One of a Kind

**Hello, internet! Exb here!**

**I really don't have much to say in these Author's Notes. I should just get to the review answers. It means you all have to read less, so unless I have an important announcement, I'll just skip straight to the review answers from now on!**

**REVIEW ANSWERS**

**Flamepup: Aha! Well, nice to see you back on board! I'll keep your new name in mind.**

**BfheadGamer: Cymander is just...he's cool. I mean, maybe he doesn't have an undead army, but he's cool. He likes his blue.**

**KentoTempura: Ahhh, I am familiar with that name! Curtisimo...yesss, I know him. And yes, the Enderborn killed both of them. He's been orchestrating this all along.**

**VerinSedai: Yes, it was a huge chapter, sorry about all of those words! **

**VVVVV**

It was early morning when Matt's sleep was interrupted by the sudden opening of the cell door. He had no idea what the time was, but this was long before breakfast was normally served. He did not dare rise, but he opened his eyes just in case.

"Wake up, gentlemen."

He could hear footsteps, several pairs of them, entering the door. Somebody kicked Kellan, and he grunted as the boot made contact with his flesh. Matt, hoping to avoid a kick himself, rose up quickly before they could make him rise. There were six men, one of them being the ranger commander who had spoken to them before he had them arrested.

"Is it breakfast time already?" Kellan asked, ignoring the fact that he had been booted in the ribs. He must've been really hungry to ignore such a jarring blow.

"It's not even five, boy," a gruff ranger answered.

"What's with the early rising?" Matt dared to ask, hoping that he wouldn't receive a kick himself. He was dragged up onto his feet by two of them, and handed spare clothes.

"Rose Leader wishes to see the two of you. I'm sorry that it was so early, but she demanded that you two be brought before her immediately," the ranger commander acknowledged him.

"Of course," Matt acknowledged back, simply glad that the ranger had answered him.

During the course of their four days' imprisonment within the ranger complex, their treatment had not been hostile, yet they had received the cold shoulder from everybody. They were fed well, clothed, bathed, and given a medical examination by one of the healers, but nobody bothered to initiate small talk or question them beyond a basic interrogation. The pendant had been taken away from him the first day after their capture; the head ranger did not trust him with it, and had it sealed away in a nearby vault for safekeeping.

They were seen as outsiders, foreigners, infiltrators.

_They suspect we're enemies_, Matt knew. He could see the distrust in the eyes of every single one of them.

He dressed quickly, hoping to be able to get out of his cell. Even if he was being taken to this so-called "Rose Leader", it would mean a chance to get out of his damp cell and see what the strange city had to offer.

As soon as Kellan dressed, they were both blindfolded and led out of the cell, back into the compound. Matt could see dim figures and flickering torches, but little else due to the heavy fold of dark grey cloth over his eyes. He let himself be led, without resistance, to wherever their destination was.

_Don't struggle with them. Maybe this will end up in your favor_.

Things couldn't be too much worse. After all, they had food and shelter. For the time being, they were safe from their hunters, whom Matt knew were still out there, waiting for the moment to strike.

"Take them through the Catacombs. It would be unwise to bring them out in public," he heard the ranger commander order, and they were led into a much darker, and tighter space. He couldn't see, but Matt could feel the dampness on his skin, the humidity in the dim tunnel. Only two of the four rangers had torches; the other two were leading Matt and Kellan on, holding onto them as they stumbled over rocks and pebbles in the darkness.

It was a long journey through the tunnel, but finally Matt felt the air grow warmer and drier, and soon light returned to his eyes. Finally, his blindfold was removed, and his eyes stung momentarily as he felt the full force of sunlight hit them. Slowly, surely, they recovered and he found himself in a large marble and stone entry hall, with tall vertical windows admitting bright shafts of light in.

"Are you familiar with the Rose Leader?" one of the rangers asked Matt.

"I...no."

"She's the keeper of this city. You will address her only as 'Rose Leader' or 'My Lady', is that clear?" he told Matt, speaking to Kellan as well. Matt nodded his assent, and Kellan quickly did so as well, to avoid another possibly boot to any part of his body.

"Do not speak unless spoken to, and respect her. Or else," he warned, leaving the ending statement vague intentionally. The two were led down into the hall towards a large metal door, which was opened by several guards at the behest of the approaching party.

It was more of a throne room that anything else, even if there was no throne. The large hall had to be at least a hundred feet long and thirty feet wide, with the same slanting vertical windows that Matt had seen in the entryway. There was no need for torches in any area of the hall, for the sunlight illuminated everything more than well enough. At the far back of the anteroom was a desk and chair, where a small female figure sat poring over several notes. The rangers dragged Matt and Kellan before her, hustling them forward until they were ten feet away. The two boys stood there for a few awkward moments until the woman looked up.

"Thank you for being punctual. Please, bring us two chairs," she asked one of the men politely.

"C-chairs, Rose Leader?"

"The things you sit in. Or do you sit on your ass?" she questioned, and the ranger was off in a hurry, back with two plain wooden chairs before she could raise another question. He placed them where he was directed to, and then stood back.

"Please, gentlemen. Take a seat. They won't bite you, I promise," she offered, and Matt and Kellan both awkwardly scooted themselves into their chairs.

"So. Spare me any bullshit you have, and speak truthfully, because I don't have time for elaborate stories. What were you doing here?"

The woman wore some sort of native dress, a toga of sorts, lapis blue and fringed with silver thread. It was light and it looked professional, and the leather sandals that she wore looked quite comfortable.

Matt launched into his long-winded explanation about their situation; Rose Leader looked more and more displeased by the moment as he told her his tale, but he figured it would be useless to try and lie to her and make up a completely normal story. After all, their situation was quite abnormal; it would not do any justice to mould the tale differently. When he was finished, he gently placed his hands on his lap, waiting for her reply.

"What part of '_no bullshit'_ did I not make myself clear about?" she asked firmly after a few seconds of glancing back and forth between the two of them. Matt began to shift his feet awkwardly, out of habit, feeling rather defiled as she studied him.

"It's the entire truth, ma'am," he assured her.

"Sure it is. Everything about the scary monsters and the gun, too? Stupid boys," she questioned, looking rather insulted.

"Actually, ma'am, if I may interrupt, we found the firearm on his person," one of the rangers stepped forward. "I can send for it, if you-"

"Do not bring that thing here. Keep it out of my sight," she seethed at him. "I will not have such a destructive weapon in my court."

"Of course, Rose Leader..."

"You word is enough," she said. "I will believe it."

"They've also stuck to this same story numerous times, my lady," he added. "They haven't changed a single detail between them."

"Sounds like a well rehearsed plan. Tell me, gentlemen, do you really think I would take something so absurd instantly for granted?" she asked them, as if to make light of them.

"It's the full truth, ma'am..."

"You must be both blind _and_ stupid," she growled, her mouth turning upward in a snarl. "I did not drag you before me to be deceived and played with. You'd better speak truly, and fast, before I change my mind."

"They did have the Pendant, Rose Leader," the leading ranger told her. That gave her some pause.

"You do?"

"We have it now. I can send for it, if it's not too much trouble-"

"Of course it's not. Bring it to me," she ordered him, snappily. He bowed and disappeared from sight, and her attention was returned to Matt and Kellan.

"If it wasn't for that pendant, I would have both of your heads as spies. How the hell did you come into possession of it?" she asked. "Your story is so absurd..."

"It may sound like it, but that's how it happened, my Lady. I told the entire truth," Matt said sheepishly. Clearly, she was still not pleased, but her expression had lightened a bit. Seeing as they possessed the pendant, their tale had weight to it.

They waited for a while as the ranger heeded his command. When he returned, he was carrying a wooden lockbox in his hands, and fumbled with the key for several seconds before opening it and withdrawing the pendant.

Matt's heart leapt at the sight of the trinket that he had not seen in several days. He had forgotten how much he longed for it. In that instant, he wanted to leap out of his chair and seize the beautiful necklace from the calloused hands of the ranger, but he gripped the rim of the chair tightly and prevented himself from doing anything foolish.

"Here it is, My Lady."

"I can see that. No need to point it out to me," she frowned at him.

"My apologies, Rose Leader. I did not mean to..."

"Just hand me the damn trinket and step back into line," she snapped. The ranger obeyed her without delay, gently handing her the pendant. She examined it in her hands before setting it down on the table.

"I have researched much about this. It is a famous artifact," she said. When nobody else spoke, she continued.

"It would be foolish to touch it. Such power, neither good nor bad...but simply so much power. How long were you holding it on your person?" she asked Matt.

"About...it was a few weeks, at least..."

"Bloody hell," Rose Leader swore. "Weeks...do you know what something like that can do to your mind?" she asked him, incredulous.

_I've felt its effects. Of course I know_, Matt wanted to say. _It was slowly taking me over, and it still exerts a hold over me...it's like a magnet._ But he refrained from saying that, deciding to play the part of the innocent, foolish boy.

"No, ma'am, I was not told..."

"Not told? Either your keepers were holding secrets from you, or they were just as blind and dumb as you are," she spat. "Such a thing like this needs to be destroyed."

"That is what we intended to do," Kellan spoke up for the first time since sitting down. "But...we had..."

"Problems, yes," Rose Leader cut him off. "You're repeating your friend. Shut up unless you have something new to add to the conversation. I do not have the time to spare for pointless comments and repetition."

As curt and rude as she was, Matt felt a bit of pity for her. He noticed large stacks of missives and papers on her desk, and her writing hand was calloused, bruised and even bleeding. She obviously had a lot of work to do, and a large scar on her right forearm spoke of a history of injury. All the same, her personality was off-putting.

"We were going to destroy it. We still intend to destroy it," Matt told her, sparking an initiative within his mind. He hoped to convince her that he could still destroy it, and he hoped beyond hope that she would give him a ranger escort back to Iceport so that he could finally finish it. But she was not convinced.

"The two of you? What made you think I have faith in two kids barely out of puberty hell?" she scoffed at them.

"I wasn't asking-"

"Oh, spare your shit. I know you were trying to get me on your side. Don't think I don't know what you're up to," she said. "I'm not sending you back to Iceport. And I will not send my rangers out on a dangerous journey like that."

"You know it has to be destroyed?" Matt said.

"I am very well aware of what has to be done with it. I know that it must be destroyed," she sighed, sounding annoyed.

"Then you must-"

"Don't tell me what I _must _do, ignorant boy," she spat at him. "As it happens, there is a second coldforge. And a third, and a damn fourth too! Perhaps you should have done your research before setting out," she said.

"We did some research," Matt returned coldly.

"Apparently not enough. Did you know that there is a coldforge down the street? Well, that's one way of putting it," she chuckled darkly.

"What do you mean, _one way of putting it_? Do you want to destroy that damned thing or not!?"

"More than you know, fool boy. The coldforge is old, though, and on the other side of the purple. You know nothing about what lies beyond that," she warned him.

"The purple...you mean...a Nether portal? Is that what you're trying to say?" Matt ventured.

"Hmmm, so you have done some research. And for a moment I thought I was going to have to babysit you the entire way," Rose Leader smirked. "Yes, it is in the Nether. A foolish venture by foolish men ages ago. Lost to time."

"But it's still there, then?" Matt asked hopefully.

"Yes, it is. Operational. Plausible. But it's in the Nether. Do you expect me to send my rangers into that damned place to babysit you all the way there?" Rose Leader scoffed.

"I thought you wanted this destroyed. I don't understand why you keep resisting me," Matt wrestled with her words.

"Because I am logical, unlike you. I will not risk the lives of fifty good men for an endeavour that is unlikely to succeed," she replied coldly. "As dangerous as this is, you must ask yourself, is it worth-"

"I asked myself that time and again, even after my mentor turned on me and we lost our guard. The answer is still yes," Matt said curtly.

"Well, perhaps you aren't as foolish as you appear to be. You are determined, I will give you that," Rose Leader judged. "But it's still the Nether-"

"My lady, if I may interrupt..."

One of the rangers stepped forward, and she nodded curtly at him while withdrawing a letter from her pile and hastily scrawling her signature on it.

"Ms. Bolton has long been wishing to speak to the pigmen tribes. As you know, she...she has that gift."

"Ah, yes. I forgot that she had interest in that...now that the city is, well, 'safe', I suppose I can grant that. That works in the favor of you gentlemen," she referred to Matt and Kellan.

"I do not understand," Matt said in a monotone, betraying no hint of emotion.

"The siege lifted itself, kid," a ranger spoke up. "They just moved on. One day there were here, the next they were moving out. Haven't seen sight of them in three days."

"Doesn't mean they're gone. To assume something like that would be naive," Rose Leader said. "But they are gone for now. Which leaves us to breathe slightly easier."

"And how does that pertain to me?" Matt asked.

"Well, we've got the time and the breathing space to get you where you need to go. Unless, of course, you want to go back to Iceport," she said sarcastically.

"You intend to take us into the Nether, then?"

"Not alone. You will go with someone else. That is, if she allows you to," Rose Leader told him. Matt was about to speak up, but he was hustled up off of the chair by one of the rangers.

"We'll go to the Quiet Room. I will see if Will allows these two in."

Rose Leader led the way through a door at the back of the main room and into darker, less inviting hallways. They were made of the same material, but they reminded Matt too much of the catacombs, except less damp and cleaner.

When they came to a large anteroom, Matt saw just one man standing guard at a small, unimpressive-looking door. It didn't seem to have much importance, but when Rose Leader approach it be lowered his sword gracefully and blocked the entryway.

"Good morning, ma'am," he greeted her curtly, his sword never wavering.

"Will, we have guests for Ms. Bolton. I wish I could explain more, but their story is quite long," she spoke to him in a kinder voice.

"These two boys?" Will asked, pointing to them with scouring eyes.

"Yes."

"You can't just bring any teenage boy forward and let them see her. That is a folly. I will not permit it, she cannot come to harm," Will denied her request.

"They have the Pendant of Adeline Jones."

That gave Will pause for a moment, and his Adam's apple bounced up and down as he swallowed deeply and considered his options.

"I will not allow that cursed object near her. No," he licked his lips.

"It needs to go to the Nether coldforge. Ms. Bolton needs to go to the Nether as well. The timing of these two trips coincides, and we have no time to lose," Rose Leader told him. She must've sounded quite convincing, because he finally lifted his sword. But his stern face did not relent.

"I will let you speak to her. But only that." He opened the door and admitted Rose Leader, but lowered his weapon once more to bar Matt and Kellan.

"You, rangers, you must stay outside. You are men of iron, your place is not in here," he told them. They did not resist.

"And you two," he pointed at Matt and Kellan. "Hold your tongues, be respectful, and do not touch her. Any of you lays a hand on her or her stuff, it belongs to me. Don't even think about it," he warned them harshly, before lifting his sword with an audible swish.

They were allowed into the so-called "Quiet Room" without any further speech. Matt and Kellan stayed silent as they followed Rose Leader through rows upon rows of books, stacked up at least twelve feet high with a ceiling six or seven feet higher than that and decorated with ornate carvings in the marble.

"Are we supposed to be...uh..._quiet _in the Quiet Room?" Kellan asked quite sheepishly as they drew up behind Rose Leader.

"You'd do well to shut up unless spoken to," she answered curtly, and he did so.

The entire place seemed uninhabited, and poorly lit, until they came to the girl. In the center of the massive vault-like chamber was a massive bed, with plush pillows and couches surrounding it, and several desks covered with old books and papers and strange, flameless candles to provide light. On one of the desks was a glass terrarium, with what looked like a tiny cube of green Jello hopping around inside of it, quite contentedly. And upon that bed was a young girl, no older than twenty, her head buried in a tome.

"That young lady right there is our Listener. Cassandra Bolton," Rose Leader explained, in a tone whispery enough so that the girl would not notice. "I would not expect you two to know your history."

"The term doesn't ring a bell, no," Matt admitted.

"She speaks to creatures. That is why the slime is there," Rose Leader told her, before emerging from the dimness and entering the well-lit sanctum of the bed.

"Hello sweetheart!" Rose announced in a charming, light voice as she approached the bed. The girl whipped around swiftly, her eyes filled with surprise before she noticed who it was. Then she calmed down, and she actually smiled.

"Good morning!" she replied politely. "I did not know you were here! Were you sneaking up on me?"

"I was popping by to visit," Rose told her. "As I always do, nothing to be sneaky about!"

"Rex has been quite active lately, he told me an exciting story about...what are they doing here?" she suddenly asked, and Matt saw that same surprised and fear in her eyes that he saw for that split second. She pointed at them with a now-trembling arm. "Those..._strangers_," she gasped, her voice suddenly reduced to quavering.

"They're good people, sweetheart," Rose promised her. "There's not need to fear them..."

"_Strangers_," she repeated, curling her arms around her legs, fetal style.

"They're nice boys, just look at them! Harmless, nice boys," Rose cooed at her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and trying to settle her down. "They won't move a _single _muscle, I promise you, and if they do I'll have Will come in here and _stab _them!" Rose said fiercely.

She seemed to be mollified by this and settled down, content to sit in her proto-fetal position on the bed. Matt did not dare to move, knowing that he might very well be stabbed if he screwed something up.

"Now, tell me all about Rex here," Rose asked, holding her like a mother comforting her child.

"He has the most amazing stories, although I don't think most of them are true," the girl said sheepishly. "He fights off dragons and finds buried treasure and sails to far off worlds, and even though I doubt they're real they're so fun to listen to!"

"That's so lovely, I'm sure Rex has plenty more to entertain you with," Rose smiled thoughtfully at her, but once more the girl glanced at Matt and Kellan.

"What are they still doing here?" she asked.

"They're here to help you," Rose tried to assuage her once more.

"I still don't like them..."

"Do you remember when Will and big Uncle Stan told you they would take you to the Nether one day to see the pigmen?" Rose asked her, changing the topic suddenly. The very mention of pigmen seemed to set her heart alight with joy; her bright hazel eyes lit up with excitement, and she looked like a kid at the window of a candy shop.

"Ohhhh yes yes yes! I always wanted to go and see them!? Can we, _pleeeease_!? Willy and Uncle Stan and I?" she sputtered, overtaken with joy. Hearing the conversation, Matt presumed that "Uncle Stan" was a reference to Stanislaus Freymuth, the leader of the ranger outfit. Somehow she had a very close relationship to the gruff, commanding man.

"We're still deciding on that, child," she told the girl.

"But I've wanted to go for so long! I've always wanted to speak to them, figure out why they want to hurt us and be mean...they're not bad, no, they can't possibly be bad," the young Listener fretted.

"No, they're not bad, of course," Rose placated her. "But I will have to talk to Will too, you know."

"I've seen so much about them in these books, they're not bad people! They're smart and they build cool things, and they, and they live in such an _awesome _place!" she exclaimed. "Can we go, please!?"

"We will consider it," Rose said. The girl continued to vibrate in a bubbly manner, as if Christmas had come early. "I will talk to Will."

"Can you tell him Rex said 'hi'?"

"I will do that for you," Rose smiled, and she left the girl to her book. The latter had completely forgotten about Matt and Kellan, who were swiftly hustled along by Rose back into the main antechamber. The guard was still there, and when Rose left the Quiet Room she beckoned him into a smaller chamber to the right side of the main one, where a small table had been prepared with bread and cheese.

"Have a seat, gentlemen. I apologize if you were received quite coldly by our Cassandra," Rose apologized rather flippantly as they entered and the swordsman shut the door behind him. "This here is William Kaldder, Ms. Bolton's house guard. Will, this is Matt and Kellan."

"Foreigners," he grimaced.

"Yes, foreigners. But they have the pendant-"  
"As you told me. Did they bother Ms. Bolton at all?" he inquired quietly.

"Well, she was certainly disturbed by their presence. Of course, strangers always do that. Even Commander Freymuth still has difficulty sitting with her for long periods of time," she said.

"If they bothered her..."

"They kept their mouths shut and their hands to themselves, William. No need to be lopping hands off now," Rose warned.

"My apologies," he said coldly, before stepping back into a corner of the room, warily watching Matt.

"William is the personal guard of our resident Listener. I apologize if he received you quite coldly, he doesn't appreciate outsiders or guests," Rose said.

"And for good reason," Will fumed in his back corner, eyes coldly fixated on Matt's head. Matt began to sweat slightly, knowing that those eyes were boring into his skull and that sword was just itching to strike.

"Do either of you two know what a Listener really is?"

Both of them shook their heads.

"Someone who speaks to animals, you mentioned?" Matt ventured.

"Not just any animal. A specific set of 'mobs', many of whom have sunk into legend," Rose told them.

"Mobs?"

"You're not worth explaining it to. Take it as it is," she said, and Matt found himself hushed once more.

"We've had generations of Listeners going back hundreds of years, each one capable of speaking to mobs and conversing with them. Even the undead, yes...which became a boon to the city when the Listeners were able to ward off hordes of the reanimated. There is only one Listener per generation, and Cassandra Bolton is ours."

"So that's why they're called Listeners...because they can speak, and-"

"Listen, yes. _So _glad you figured it out," Rose rolled her eyes. "Many of the creatures she can speak to are lost to history or deep underground. We were lucky to find Rex."

"The...cube thing?" Kellan asked.

"It's a _slime_," William spoke up. "Not a cube, you dumb-"

"It's a slime creature. We just call them 'slimes', they're one of the mobs," Rose cut the warrior off. "So, down to business. Ms. Bolton has long dreamed of venturing into the Nether and speaking to some of the creatures there. With the siege having only recently been lifted, her journey would have double purpose."

"You want to speak to the pigmen because they besieged your city, correct?" Matt asked.

"Yes. I want to learn everything I can about them, and why they came here. If there are friendly tribes in the Nether, that is," Rose said. "I don't think we'll glean much from hostile ones..."

"That is where I come in," Will said.

"You are one man, Will. I would not send you to any hostile tribe, ever," Rose warned him.

"I can handle myself..."

"Against fifty pigmen warriors? I doubt it. There are peaceful tribes in the Nether, they will be sufficient. We will learn what we can learn about our enemies and why they've come to our world. If they come back, we will be learned about them."

"And this is for her own benefit, do not forget," he reminded Rose Leader sternly. "Ms. Bolton has always wished to see the pigmen simply for the experience. Do not take advantage of her."

"I was not intending to do that," Rose replied, even more sternly.

"Of course, my lady. No offense meant," Will backed down slightly. Matt could feel tension in the very air; these two seemed to be quite at odds.

"These two will travel with you for their own purposes," Rose added. "They need to destroy something, and the coldforge will suit their needs."

"These...strangers?" Will asked, as if he hadn't heard correctly.

"Yes, these _strangers_. I told you they have the Pendant, William," she said sternly. "They are going."

"I will not allow them even near to my Lady again. I do not trust them," he growled.

"You _will _travel with them, Will. Do remember, that you take your orders from me."

"And remember that you told me to protect Cassandra at all costs!" he snapped back at her. "I feel that she is threatened by these two! They're _outsiders_, what if they're spies!?"

"You're overreacting," Rose said, and that was the final straw for him. He huffed out of the room, his face turning red. Before he left, he shot the darkest of looks back at Matt and said "We'll see what she has to say about this" to Rose before slamming the door shut. She sighed as his boots could be heard on the floor outside.

"I apologize for him. He's very protective of our Listener."

"I can see that," Matt said.

"He doesn't like you two, and for good reason. I don't like you either, but what you hold is precious, and you're going to go destroy it whether he wants you to or not. I will overrule him," Rose promised.

"He seems determined not to let us go," Matt worried.

"His word means bullshit against mine. He'll gripe and complain but in the end he'll do what I say. And if it's for Cassandra's benefit, he will do his best job," Rose promised.

"She seemed...off," Matt noticed.

"Off? Yes, she is quite unusual for a girl of her age. Her parents died in an attack when she was five and I'm sure the images haunt her to this very day. And here she lives secluded, visited only by Will, myself, and the occasional other guest. She's one of a kind," Rose said.

"Quite lonely..."

"She doesn't seem to mind. Not a care in the world except for us, her mobs, and her books. She likes to forget the bad things and remember the good. I wish I could have that power," Rose muttered.

Matt _did _notice that her behavior was more fitting for a ten-year old than a twenty-year old. It was weird, considering that he expected a perfectly normal human being. But, knowledgeable about her life story, he wasn't surprised that she hadn't suffered some form of mental trauma from past events.

"William is too overprotective of her. I don't know why, but he's grown so close they're like brother and sister. He's a hardass, I'll admit that," Rose said.

"I'm sure he takes good care of her."

"He does, I do not deny that. But he's still no fun to deal with. And he will never accept the two of you, probably. You may have the pendant and you may have proven yourselves, but he won't accept that," Rose told them.

"Does that mean we're still going...?

"Of course. I will overrule him no matter what he says. But that won't net you any sympathy from him," Rose warned.

"I can live with that. As long as we...as long as we destroy it," Matt hesitated, wondering if he would ever be able to get the pendant back. It called to him. Rose had taken the pendant with her when they had left, and had stuffed it into a seam in her clothing. Matt could see its outline, barely visible and creating a bulge in the silk cloth.

"You will get your chance. Ms. Bolton can have her wish, so long as William protects her, and you two will destroy your pendant. It's a win win for everybody, so try to enjoy it," she said sarcastically.

"We're going alone?"

"You think I was sending someone else with you?" Rose scoffed, as if the notion was absurd.

"Well, I assumed-"

"Wrongly, of course," she cut them off. "It's going to be you two. I'll give you arms and armor, of course, and some supplies for your journey, but that's it. It's like I just said: this is _your _journey. Not mine."

She was right. It was his, and his alone. Time to finish the pendant, and be done with its grip on his mind.


	32. Brave Young Men

**Hello internet! Thus I greet you, wish you a happy day and a lovely night, and go onward to review answers!**

**REVIEW ANSWERS:**

**AMinecraftMaster: We'll have to wait to see what's in the Nether!**

**HPE24: I really liked Rose Leader and Will. They both have interesting personalities for me, but I'm bad at judging characters anyway, so I'm not quite sure if they stand out enough.**

**VerinSedai: Whispers was always designed to be quite dark. I mean, it's not dreadfully gloomy, but I like my drama and grim settings. As for Author's notes, I usually don't have much to say anyway, so nothing to worry about there!**

**KentoTempura: Sorry man, Marceline's dead. I mentioned it once, I think, but really offhandedly, so sorry about not making that clearer!**

**VVVVV**

It would perhaps be the last day that the city of Crestan would stand.

Here, Elias Kastner's dream would finally crumble to pieces when James Kleiner's body did. But he did not intend to go down without a fight.

There was no sun at dawn; Kleiner rose because something in his mind drove him to rise, not because he could see sunlight seeping in through his window. It was dark outside, not pitch black, but gloomy. The soot stuck against the window, turning whatever light was able to get through grainy and dull.

Kleiner rose as usual, bathing in a tub of cold water and dressing before preparing for the upcoming battle. There would be no pretense now; he knew this was coming, and it was coming today. With Tanner's host wiped out and the other belligerents pulling back in the face of the undead legion, the only thing left standing was Crestan, and the new enemy was poised to strike its walls by mid-morning. If James Kleiner was going to die, he wanted to go down fighting, and in style.

His squire had already been up for an hour or so, preparing breakfast and polishing his armor. When the nobleman required his services, the young lad was more than happy to strap on every single piece of armor, from gauntlet to greaves, as Kleiner stood there and waited patiently. The process took at least half an hour, and his arms were beginning to ache halfway through as he held them out. When at last the plate cuirass was fastened and secured, the young squire handed Kleiner his helmet.

It was a fine piece, a half-helm with inlaid silver bands around the rim and a nose guard made out of burnished gold. Horsehair, bright chestnut colored, hung from the center of the crown of the helmet, running down the back of the steel and designating him as a nobleman. It was a beautiful piece, certainly not as intimidating or awesome as some helmets, but it was designed to be lightweight and useful and allowed him to show his face in battle, without sacrificing too much protection.

"Are you ready to die today?" Kleiner asked his squire as he fitted his helm on.

"I...I don't know, my lord..."

"You will face death. And when you face it, I want you to face it with the point of your sword. Make a bloody end of it, worthy of story," Kleiner told him, hoping it would sound encouraging. The boy did not seem to be better off for it. "Just stay close to me. If we can hold the walls, we'll be fine," he added, but the squire did not seem to appreciate the imminence of his death any more, even when assuaged.

The city of Crestan was rank with fear; civilians were huddled in their homes, waiting for the wave to break itself upon the wall. Those few who dared to go out were either hustling supplies home or were quickly hurrying across town to somewhere they deemed to be safer. Nobody was out shopping, nobody was relaxing or working or talking or visiting. Everyone was hiding, and out of fear.

_Fear of the dead. Fear of something they've never seen before, something they do not understand_, Kleiner thought to himself. Even he felt scared-not nervous, actually frightened-as he walked with his squire through the courtyard of the city center, where a few of the flamboyantly armored Crestan guardsmen had gathered in preparation for deployment.

Kleiner spotted one of the city councillors before the latter spotted him; as desperately as he wanted to avoid the man, he couldn't avoid detection, and stood in place as the corpulent, bathrobe-wearing, middle-aged man waddled over to him, huffing and struggling to run as quickly as he could.

"Lord Krast. I trust this morning finds you-"

"I urge you, Lord Kleiner, seek diplomatic channels with our besiegers!" he begged as soon as he was within hearing distance of the general. "There can be negotiations, there have to be, to save the city-"

"Oh, of course Lord Krast. Allow me to try talking with the living dead. I'm sure they will be glad to listen," Kleiner sneered, exhausted by the council's constant attempts to direct him. They were nothing but a flock of old, worried hens clucking this and that, terrified of the host outside of their city. The past night he had received one of them, Lord Jasper, who had attempted to convince him to do the same. He had been rebuked thoroughly.

"The city will be destroyed if your defenders fail..."

"Then let us make a valiant end of it, old man," Kleiner spoke, no longer caring for professional dialogue. "If you will not go down with your city, then turn tail and run."

"My lord, all I ask is that you speak with-"

"They are _dead_, councillor," Kleiner said. "I doubt words have any affect on them. What about this is so confusing for you?"

"The city will fall. You are a fool, James Kleiner," he muttered, sweating profusely. "Gods have mercy..."

"There is no room for mercy here. We go down fighting, and now is the time to prove your worth, councillor," Kleiner spoke to him before turning around and ignoring the man's repeated appeals for aid. His squire followed him quite awkwardly, straining not to turn back to the old man.

The streets were nearly empty; every man was already on the walls or preparing for battle, and the city guardsmen were mustering in their barracks. With luck, Kleiner would perhaps have 30,000 men fit for battle, about 15,000 of those able to fit on the wall and defend it. The other 15,000 would have to be deployed throughout the city, at whichever points would be easy to hold should the initial defenses fail.

He knew that most of the guardsmen garrisoned here were raw and green; many of those with experience had died before the Ditch, slain in the first bloody battle against Stanislaus Antar. Those who survived were not men of any army. They were inexperienced, and they only wished to live a peaceful life at home, protecting their families. Many of them hated Kleiner for dragging them into a war they wanted no part of, and he could feel the vitriol emanating from each of them when he passed by their rank and file.

_They all hate me. Everyone in this city hates me, even though I'm saving them. Maybe I have been too harsh_.

He had locked the city down and moved his troops inside, enforced martial law and brought out all reserve soldiers. The citizens were gloomy and despairing, knowing that their doom waited outside of the city gates. They all blamed him for bringing this doom upon them, and every man and woman of Crestan knew James Kleiner and hated the very name.

_And yet I'm still going to save them. Or die trying_.

Under a gloomy blanket of ash, Kleiner marched up to the Eastern Gate, where the tower guards let him pass. As soon as he reached the top of the wall, he made a mental note about the circumference of the defenses and proceeded to study the host assembling on the ashen plains before him.

The creatures had slept, just like any animal. The pigmen creatures had assembled crude yurts out of fabric or had stolen tents from Tanner's camp, and had slept in those overnight. The tall black beings with the purple eyes had disappeared overnight, reappearing the moment that dawn had risen, according to one of the sentries. But the most disturbing part was the skeleton army.

The entire night it had been standing before the city, every single one of those armored, undead warriors motionless, their eyes locked on the city walls that would become their prize should they prevail. But what did such a prize mean to something so lifeless, and yet still living? Tens of thousands of them remained standing in formation, beyond range of archers or catapults and yet close enough to see. Each one of them was watching the city, waiting for their order. Just looking out at them, locked in their steadfast rows, unmoving, unsleeping, gave Kleiner's blood a chill.

He found his highest-ranking lieutenant laying out a fire plan with the ballista corporal not far away. Lieutenant Carpenter was the last of the high-ranking officials in the army, and as such Kleiner was relying on him to carry as much of the combat as possible.

"Lieutenant Carpenter," Kleiner barked, and the man and his attendant crewmen snapped to attention immediately.

"Are all men outfitted with blunt weapons?" Kleiner enquired.

"As many as can be, my lord. A few of them had to grab smith hammers or clubs..."

"Anything that can smash or break bone will work," Kleiner said. He had learned from observing the previous battle that swords and spears did little against pure bone. Unless the weapon drove through the skull, it would be useless against bone. He knew that a few of his men were strong enough to chop through something as hard as bone, but it wasn't enough to rely on. Thus, he had ordered every unit possible to be equipped with blunt weapons, which would be far more effective against skeletons.

"Some of the men were reluctant to sheathe their swords, my lord..."

"Did you gather the gunpowder as I asked?"

"Aye sir. Stored in the smithy basement, all of the weapons were cleared out-"

"Good. I want every single barrel of that deployed at the eastern gate. The entryway, the towers, underneath that, _all _of it," Kleiner told him, pointing out each specific location.

"The gate, sir?"

"We're going to bring it down, every single damn stone," Kleiner declared.

"Sir...are you going to give them an entryway into the city?" the lieutenant asked, his jaw slowly dropping open. "Are you-"

"It will be an obstacle, not an opportunity. The eastern gate is the most vulnerable of any spot along the wall, and I guarantee you they will target it," Kleiner told him.

"They already have a ram, the sentries spotted it," Carpenter reported.

"Exactly. They come up to ram it down, we bring the entire gatehouse to the ground. The stones will pile up too high for them to climb it, and if they manage to bring up ladders they'll have to scrabble over debris and stone to get to us," Kleiner said. "The rest of the wall will be easy to defend. It is only the gate that I am worried about."

"What about troop deployment?" Carpenter asked.

"Move them from the gate-"

"What about the city councillors, sir? They will not be pleased about this..."

"Let them flail their arms and scream at us. We must do everything we can to protect this city, and this will be just another sacrifice in our struggle," Kleiner told him. "Move that gunpowder. We have an hour, I would say."

_Let the councillors voice their displeasure. I am saving their damn city, or at least trying to_.

The rest of the walls around Crestan were secured; per orders, small companies of archers and men at arms were making their way up onto the battlements from the streets below, marshalled out by their company commanders in preparation for the defense. Kleiner had done his best to organize everything, but without Brennan he felt like he was missing critical things.

_I could use him right now. More than ever, in fact_, Kleiner thought to himself as he rested his hands upon the cold, ash-flecked stones of the battlements and gazed out at the host arrayed before him. Every single skeleton, waiting for the command, lined up in perfect ranks just out of range.

Time slowly passed. Everything was in line, every plan had been set into motion, and all Kleiner had to do was wait.

Battalions of archers and crossbowmen lined the walls, nocking their arrows or fidgeting with their bows or just in general waiting, waiting for the time to come. Ballista crews manned their death machines, aiming them at the host out upon the plains and waiting for their commands. Everyone was waiting; whether death or victory was to come their way, they were waiting for it, armored and armed.

He was summoned to the armory to confer with his officers one last time before the battle. There were only forty men of distinguishable rank, every single one of them looking worn and weary, but prepped for battle. As he met them in the armory's basement, he dispatched final orders and tried to give them what little encouragement he could.

"Each of you holds a section of the wall. If you feel that your section is threatened, raise a plain white flag from each of your towers so that we know which section to reinforce," Kleiner told them, having thought up of the idea on the way to the armory. Large sheets of white fabric were plentiful, and easily recognized.

"Won't the enemy take that as a sign of surrender?" one corporal curiously asked.

"There will be no surrender. They will give us no quarter. The white flag is for emergency purposes only, there will be no surrendering," Kleiner told them. "For many of us, this will be our last battle." He was glad to see that none of them faltered at all when he told them that. They all knew what they would be facing.

"If this is our last battle, let's make a good one of it. Every man fights until the bitter end, every captain goes down with his ship. If this _is _to be the end, let's make a bloody one of it."

There was no cheering, but Kleiner could see inspiration in the eyes of every one of them. They sought glory, they sought battle, and it was coming to them. Death would be a release from the suffering of war, and in death they could finally find the glory they sought.

Ash began to fall heavily, more like a snowstorm than anything else. Blown by winds high above the city, the grey flecks began to fall quickly, resembling snow but dustier. Kleiner's lieutenant returned to him to alert him that the gunpowder was all prepared, and then took his place at one of the larger towers on the wall, about a quarter of a mile from Kleiner. The latter was as close to the eastern gate as he possibly could be without being exposed to the explosion. Every soldier had been cleared from the gatehouse in preparation for the blast.

As expected, the shrill screech was first. He had heard it before, the first day that the undead host was unveiled against Lord Tanner's camp. And again it rang out, drowning out all other sounds as it rent the air apart and brought men to their knees. Kleiner could not help himself as he pressed his hands against his ears and supported himself against the wall of his tower, trying not to buckle as his eardrums swelled and felt like bursting.

It was a long twenty seconds before the screech cut off instantly, and without missing a beat the drums picked up. Loud, harsh, and resonant, the massive drums boomed across the battlefield, and the legion began its march.

Every single skeleton marched in step, each one of them awakened by the sound of the drums. Somewhere within that rank and file, obscured by swirling ash, were the pigmen and the black beasts as well, forming their own little cohorts with their own objectives. And somewhere in there a battering ram was being brought up, Kleiner knew.

In the swirl of ash, the commands for fire rang out, and Kleiner heard the twang of hundreds of bows launching their deadly projectiles through the air. Kleiner found himself worried now that visibility had decreased; the arrows would have a more difficult time slicing through the air with the wind resistance, and accuracy would falter because of the ash. He was hoping that the archers would not suffer too badly, seeing as they were firing in large barrages, but the ballistae would have a harder time marking targets.

Many of the skeletons seemed unaffected by the arrows; a few of them went down if the projectile hit them in the head, but most of the missiles missed completely or were shrugged off by the undead. The few ballista bolts that hit were far deadlier, breaking several skeletons at a time to pieces when they hit their mark. But so many of them went off target or fell short, as the ash began to blow faster and faster and fell harder.

And the undead horde crawled on, sparing not a moment in their assault. Before Kleiner realized they were close to the walls, the sounds of dozens of wooden ladders smacking against the stone parapets, a hollow and loud crash, informed him that they would waste no time in attempting to take the walls. Every man drew his weapon-all of them blunt, warhammers and mauls and maces and polehammers-and the archers stepped back from their positions to let the men-at-arms take up the defense.

_They came too fast...and we couldn't get enough shots off_, Kleiner realized. He hadn't been able to see how quickly the host was marching due to the ash, and it had not dawned on him that they were making good progress until the ladders hit. Somewhere close to the gate, a battering ram was lumbering slowly along the cobblestone road, protected by even more skeletons.

"Stay close to me. Do not engage anybody unless they threaten me," Kleiner ordered his squire, who complied silently. Kleiner drew his own warhammer, a small but powerful iron piece, and made his way down the stairs of the tower, past crossbowmen who were taking potshots at the horde beyond the wall. None of them would be able to accurately hit a target, but it was worth giving them something to think about.

Immediately after finding his way down to the battlements, Kleiner saw the first skeletons rise up over the parapet, wicked, finely-honed blades in hand. They wore a variety of armor, most of it newly-forged iron but some old and rusted and broken, something they had worn when they had died. Regardless of who they had been in a past life, they were all vicious, hateful warriors now, descending upon the first rank of men like flies upon a corpse. Many of the men-at-arms were hard-pressed to hold their position as the undead began falling on them, relentlessly swinging their swords and falling only when their skulls were broken or impaled.

Kleiner suddenly found himself afraid as he pushed his way past crossbowmen to get into the fray and lead his men. He had seen the skeletons before, but not this close; they were terrifying creatures, emotionless, mindless, completely silent even when dying. They made no noise, their eye sockets were empty and devoid of all life, and they did not respond to any sort of injury unless it physically disabled them. They fought without tiring, each blow as powerful as the last, heedless of any attack that did not damage them.

The men struggled to throw back the horde as Kleiner maneuvered himself into the fray, using his men's shields to protect himself. He lashed out at the armored head of one and it crumpled, and for a moment he was suddenly flooded with confidence. But the next blow was caught on a shield, and another only nicked bone, and suddenly Kleiner felt himself being pushed back by a tide of bone and armor, as men fell around him to sharp blades and deadly spears. And as he glanced around, his confidence faltered.

The section was not failing, but Kleiner could tell that his men were hard pressed to hold their position. They needed reinforcements, or something to push them, or else they would break. He watched as one of the skeletons caught the arm of a man mid-blow, reached up with his other hand and twisted the man's neck until it cracked sharply. He saw one archer go down under three skeletons, speared to death mercilessly. Another was grabbed by one of the monsters and hurled headfirst over the wall, down fifty feet to his death in the legion below.

He had to do something. He had to push forward, even if it meant his own death, and inspire his men to push them back down their ladders. As the man-at-arms in front of him fell, Kleiner drew up his warhammer and brought it down with all his might, smashing the skeleton's skull to shards. He head a sword swish right over his shoulder and broke a leg as he swung low, felling the monster. To his relief, he saw his own men pushing forward now, trying to stay in line with their leader. They were locking shields together and physically forcing the skeletons back, absorbing their blows with the shields and lashing out when necessary. Knocking another skeleton's arm off, Kleiner withdrew into their line before his position was compromised and let the main body force them back.

It was slow going, with the skeletons fighting relentlessly, without fear or emotion, but they were overcome by the tide of living men. Those who were not felled were physically crushed against the parapets and battered into pieces, while other men grabbed the tops of the ladders and hurled them back down when they got the chance. Kleiner found himself swinging downwards at a disabled skeleton that was trying to sweep him off of his feet, and as he smashed the skull he felt confidence flowing back into him, if only briefly.

Taking a look up and down the line, Kleiner saw no white flags, but combat all over the eastern side of the wall. Ladders had made their way up to the parapets, and skeletons were swarming up onto the battlements. Down below, the battering ram was already visible, now crawling its way up the cobblestones towards the gate.

"Find Lieutenant Carpenter on his section of the wall, tell him to give the order to detonate the gunpowder barrels!" he told his squire, who took off like a shot down the wall. There were more ladders coming up to the wall, Kleiner could see, and plenty more skeletons to mount them.

The explosion was expected, but Kleiner still found himself thrown to the ground by the force of the blast. When his squire came running back with the news, Kleiner braced himself against a tower and waited, calling out targets for the ballistae as the ladders inched their way up to the walls. When the barrels went off, his ears felt like they were exploding. Despite his preparations, he was still knocked to the ground, his helm hitting the parapets hard and causing his head to ring. The sky was suddenly lit up for only a second, and flashes of light remained in his eyes as he rose up into a cloud of smoke and dust. He could hear rocks crumbling, could hear things crunching, and he smelled gunpowder and smoke, chokingly thick.

Where the gatehouse had once stood, rubble now remained, still cascading down the side of a thick, impenetrable pile of debris. The battering ram now sat in place, faced with an unbreakable pile of rock and other rubble in front of it.

"Ladders! More ladders!"

The enemy hadn't missed a beat. Kleiner heard the call to arms and the clacking of wood against stone, and saw more ladders go up farther down along the wall. If they couldn't get through the gate, they were determined to take the walls.

Archer fire continued to rain down from the towers, to little effect. Most of the ballistae crews were either dead or had been separated from their engines in the melee, and rendered the siege equipment effectively useless. One of the black monstrosities appeared in a cloud of purple effluvium in the middle of a group of crossbowmen and began shredding them with wickedly sharp claws, until it took a crossbow quarrel to the shoulder and vaporized with another puff of smoke and a pained screech. This was what a falling kingdom looked like.

Kleiner found himself face first with a ladder as it smacked against the side of the battlements with a dull thud. He turned around to rally his troops to the new location, but he suddenly realized that he was alone, surrounded by nothing but the dead. The tower beside him was full of archers, and farther down the wall he could see fighting, but at his own spot he was completely alone, the only man holding the wall. And before he could react, the first figure made it to the top of the ladder and jumped down.

He was expecting a skeleton or perhaps one of those demented pigmen, but the figure that approached him was entirely human, or at least looked the part. He was clad in white robes and a light grey hood, all of this cinched together with a leather belt and with a cross-sash of black silk. The only weapon on his person was a longsword, a razor-sharp blade gleaming in the dull light of a nearby torch.

Kleiner saw a smile cross what part of his face was visible, and before he could launch his strike the blade was swinging away at him, lightning fast and deadly. His warhammer barely caught the first strike, and the flurry of blows rendered him unable to be offensive. He defended himself fiercely, using the warhammer's pick to deflect the blade downward, but every time the strange man recovered and launched another attack. No one had come up from behind him; he had been the only enemy up the ladder, even as men and undead began to surround them as fighting traveled down the wall.

With the swarm of combatants making their way towards him, Kleiner found that he could use that to distract his opponent and drive in for a kill. When the sword and warhammer finally parted, Kleiner jabbed it forward instead of swinging it. His foe easily stepped backwards to dodge the attack, but he ended up running into one of his own soldiers and losing his footing briefly. For a triumphant moment, Kleiner saw an opportunity, and brought the hammer up to swing it down and crush his enemy's skull.

But he just vaporized into thin air. More of a purple effluvium, really, like that black creature. One moment he was there, recovering his balance, and the next moment he was gone, and Kleiner felt a burning pain whip through his thigh, slicing upwards and bringing him to one knee, nearly hamstringing him. He grit his teeth to avoid crying out in pain and returned his attention to the duel.

He blocked the second blow just barely, but the first one had already torn through his knee from behind and left a long gash up his thigh. Kleiner was badly injured, that much he could tell; ash poured from the sky as he felt warm blood seep down his hose and chainmail.

The man had somehow _teleported _behind him, having dodged his attack and struck his own blow. It was unnatural, but clearly nothing about this enemy was natural, so Kleiner had to flow with whatever he was facing. Not only was his foe agile and lightning fast, he could also teleport, apparently at will, and Kleiner felt like he was being toyed with.

The blade just barely nicked him on the shoulder, and he felt the sting, but it was nothing like the pain burning through his thigh. The fire made it difficult to turn and pivot, and he was slowed as a result. The man took advantage of this, and hit Kleiner in the stomach with the flat of his blade, knocking the wind out of him. In a desperate attempt at striking, Kleiner lashed out with the warhammer and only swung into thin air.

He had teleported again. Kleiner knew he was directly behind him, but he couldn't turn around quick enough. The razor-sharp blade slashed through his hauberk, tearing through the chain mail links on his back and drawing blood in an arc along his spine. It pierced clothing and flesh and bone as well, ripping its way through him like a knife through butter, cutting into his back and severing vertebrae and ripping up through his shoulder blades as it exited. Kleiner felt his body seize up entirely as the pain began to cascade through him, and he realized that the blade had severed his spine as it tore through him. He couldn't help but fall to the ashen stones, turning around just enough to see his opponent.

He could see those eyes under the hood. Those eyes weren't natural; they were purple, not just a deep blue, but pure purple, like nothing he had ever seen before. Those eyes were full of malice, deep pools of hatred, and that shimmering sword rose up in the air, ready to bring the killing blow down upon Kleiner's head. He could do nothing but sit there, paralyzed by his injury, and wait for the blow to come down.

And then his chest exploded. Not his, rather, but his opponent's.

For one moment, he was standing there, victorious, his lips curling upward and his purple eyes gleaming violently as he savored his kill, and the next those lips were parted in a silent scream, those eyes flew wide open, and that sword dropped onto the stones with a clatter as the piercing end of the dirk punched through his chest from behind and withdrew just as quickly.

He clutched at the gaping wound in his body, as blood began to seep out of it and stained his white garb. For a second he gazed at Kleiner, horrified, as he realized the extent of his injuries, and then he disappeared in another blast of purple smoke, leaving nothing behind but his bloody sword.

James Kleiner was slipping out of consciousness by then. He saw white banners rising over so many towers, saw skeletons pouring over the walls and down into the city streets. Elias Kastner's dream was crushed, his kingdom was falling, and his hopes were finally buried beneath a tide of undead.

He felt someone, _something_, dragging him away from the spot as his vision faded. He heard shouts and cries, heard a thunderous warhorn, foreign to his ears, rumble across the battlefield. As it sounded again, and was echoed by a dozen more, he let his eyelids close and consciousness was swept from him.


	33. The Return Home

**Hello everybody! I apologize for the slightly longer wait. School's starting again and academics must be my primary focus. But I'll work as much as I can on writing!**

**As for this chapter, it was a bit rushed since I really wanted to move the plot along and make sure that things are running fluidly. I did my best to cover all of the points necessary, but I'll admit, it's not my finest work. That's up to everyone else to judge, though. I just hope it's enjoyable!**

**VVVVV**

For what seemed like weeks Sora had run. It had only been three or four days before she had found the tiny hovel, but it felt like much longer.

Her energy left her the moment she was away from the camp; the adrenaline rush petered out, and she suddenly lost the will to flee or to fight or to do anything else. Exhausted, battered, emotionally traumatized, she fell down into a brook and slept on the wet sand there, naked, until she woke the next morning, parched and starving. The fresh, clean water from the playfully babbling brook quenched her thirst, but she could find little to eat. The wilderness was unkind to a young girl fleeing from her own personal hell.

The second day she managed to find some wild berries and eat those, which alleviated the hunger a bit. She realized that nobody was bothering to pursue her, but that she had ended up stumbling into another problem by running off. She had no idea where she was, only a vague idea of what direction she was heading in, and no consistent supply of food or water. Out of paranoia and fear, she avoided any and all roads, trying to find her way through dense forests, past flowing creeks and through grassy plains.

The fourth day brought more hunger, a worse thirst, heat, and what seemed like an endless sea of grass to stumble through. Sora woke that day underneath a large oak in a copse of trees, surprised that she had not yet been accosted or slain by bandits or rogues. The clouds that morning had threatened rain, and by noon their threats had turned to action. The downpour felt almost soothing, the cold rain splashing down on her feverish skin and cooling her brow as she walked through giant tufts of wet grass. In the delirium brought on by her fever, it felt almost mystical.

Until she found the little hamlet nestled in-between two willow trees, along a small brook. She was afraid to approach it at first, suddenly gripped by her own paranoia, but slowly she moved forward, through the drenching rain, towards the tiny cottage. Smoke poured from the rough brick chimney, a sure sign that the inhabitants were home. Completely naked, sopping wet, feverish, hungry and delirious, Sora walked up to the front door and knocked, as hard as she could with what strength she had.

Thankfully, the person who answered was a woman. A kindly old woman, it turned out.

Seeing Sora standing there, half conscious, delirious in her fevered state, the middle-aged woman took her in and prepared a bed and hot food and water for Sora.

The next two or three days went by in a blur. Sora slept often; the bed, while not a featherbed by any means, was warm and comforting and did not scratch her like rushes or wild grasses did. She had warmth, she had light, warm food and water and every day she swallowed some scratchy, sour concoction that the woman claimed would see her fever away.

She wet the bed once, entirely on accident. She felt embarrassed by the whole ordeal, standing above the bed while the woman changed the sheets out.

"Don't fret about it lass, you're ill and things happen," she tried to assuage Sora, who only nodded shakily and watched in despair. It was such things that made her question why she even bothered carrying on in the first place; where would she go now?

Another day and she was better, no longer ailing but healthy and well-fed and taken care of by the lady. When she was finally able to rise out of bed by herself and eat her own meal, Sora was approached by the woman at breakfast.

"You didn't have a temperature this morning. I reckon you're feeling alright?" she inquired. Sora nodded, not even strong enough to speak. She could use her words, but something prevented her from doing so. She wanted to stay silent.

"Well, that's good. Might...might I ask, where were you going, lass?" she asked in a friendly tone. Sora looked up from her stew, tried to speak, and then failed herself. Disgusted, she shook her head violently and returned to the soup, wishing that the old woman would just go away. She wished that everything would just go back to the way it used to be.

"Well, ah, you're not far from the Birchwood…"

The name perked her up.

"Birchwood?" she parroted briefly, before silencing herself once more.

"Lord Partridge used to be in command, but Lord Kurnias took over a long time ago. His retinue is expanding and he's bringing in migrant workers for employment, perhaps there's something there that might satisfy you?"

Sora did not answer, but she listened.

"I saw the look in your eyes when you knocked at my door, lass," the lady spoke, sensing that Sora was being deliberately silent. "I've seen that look before. The eyes of someone who has nowhere to go, and who is going nowhere. Don't think you can fool me."

Sora didn't speak. She continued to practice her silent ritual while secretly willing the old woman away.

"I'm here to help you. You don't have anywhere to go, do you?"

Sora couldn't ignore her any longer. She turned slowly, shook her head, and then turned back again. She had lost all appetite for her soup suddenly; it was gone in the blink of an eye, just like her new home had been. Gone.

"I'll find something for you. Tomorrow. We'll go to the Birchwood…I think I know just the thing."

And there she was, the next day, standing before the steward of the Birchwood Keep. Sora had not listened much to what the old lady had said on the trip into the town, but she remembered that the steward was related to her somehow...son, or brother, or _something_. She didn't really care, but the rotund, baby-faced man was overjoyed to have new help for the castle.

"We, we are s-short on workers, and, and her presence will be welcome v-very much!" he exclaimed, stuttering in his delight. "I will, will inform Lord Kurnias immediately!"

Not so much as a resume check or an interview or anything. Sora was handed new garb, shown her workspace and given orders, and tasked with serving food from the kitchens to both the lord and his underlings.

It was simple, really; there was no talking involved, no interaction besides dishing out platters of food from a brass tray to whomever was there to eat it. She saw plenty of men, and women too, come and go from the dim, uninviting stone hall of Lord Kurnias, who had apparently replaced Lord Partridge as the true guardian of the Birchwood.

Days came and went; Sora never spoke to any other of other stewards, or cooks, or servingwomen. She dressed in the morning, did her duty, and once she was finished retreated from the people to the solitude of her small quarters. She sat at the window to watch the sky, sat to think and escape.

Every day it was like that. A week passed, seven days, each day the same as the last. Sora felt like she was falling eternally, cast out from her once happy life and thrown into some sort of twisted nightmare that there was no escape from.

She was alive, but she felt dead.

VVVVV

Matt was greeted with the heat before he even stepped out of the portal. The purple tendrils wrapped around his face, smothering his vision until he was able to step out of the obsidian framework and be free of the writhing effluvium.

And the heat hit him like a wave, as soon as he had touched dirt. It felt like a sauna, only...different. Dry, and much crisper, like that of an oven. And almost malevolent, as foolish as that sounded.

The trip into the Nether had been quick, only a few seconds, but it had felt like much longer, as Matt's vision had turned to black and he could see nothing, could feel nothing, for several seconds as he traveled. His stomach had dropped out of him, he had felt extremely sick for a brief moment, and then the effluvium appeared and the fiery red air of the Nether formed before his eyes as his vision became clear again and the spinning stopped. The sickness was only momentary, for as soon as his feet touched hard ground he felt well again.

Kellan was out after him, and almost fell down on the ground as he dropped out of the portal. He retched onto the dry dirt, and Matt presumed that his travel experience had been far worse.

Will and Cassandra seemed unfazed as they gingerly stepped out of the obsidian framework, the gaseous purple mist swirling around them and vanishing as they entered the world. Will did not seem too pleased to be where he was, but Cassandra looked absolutely thrilled. The look in her eye betrayed her if nothing else did; it was the gleam of excitement, like that of a child walking into a giant toy store.

"You two know what you're doing?" Will asked, shrugging the vapor off of his chainmail-armored shoulders.

"Er...sort of," Matt said awkwardly.

"Sort of?

"I dunno where we're supposed to go. I know what to do..."

"We're going to the same place," Will told him, his eyes narrowing in irritation. "I thought Rose Leader told you all of this?"

"Well, she said some things. Not everything..."

"Just follow me. And try not to get lost, because I'm not going to come and get you," Will told him, obviously already annoyed. Matt felt bad for pissing him off, but at least he was on the right track now. Kellan was back on his feet, looking rather pale but alive, and Cassandra was already bounding forward, crossing the vast tract of reddish dirt without a care in the world.

"We're gonna go see the pigmen, we're gonna go see the pigmen!" she sang carelessly as she ran, nearly tripping several times over small mounds of upturned dirt. But it didn't bother her; for all she knew, this was paradise. Albeit a hot paradise.

Matt and Kellan followed closely behind Will, who was heedless of Cassandra. She knew where she was going, apparently; she would be the first one there, of course, but she would wait.

High above them, a red sky burned, seemingly on fire itself due to the color and the texture of the horizon. It was all around them, this red void; apparently the Nether was constructed mostly out of islands and giant pillars of land, all suspended over a sea of lava and a deeper layer of nearly impenetrable bedrock.

"The Nether is part of the planet, close to the core. But it's so deep, one cannot possibly dig down into it, and the voids are an issue," Rose Leader had explained before. "So the portal is the only option."

"It's inside the planet?" Matt asked naively.

"In a manner of speaking. If you had learned basic geology, perhaps you would have known these things."

Once he would've taken that as an insult, but he had grown used to Rose Leader's constant nitpicking and irritation. It wasn't exclusive to him, either; every man and woman who spoke to her suffered from her short attitude, an attitude borne from a plague of endless troubles that she, as the city's sole leader, had to deal with.

After traveling for about a mile on hard ground, Matt spotted something looming in the distance. Cassandra was now becoming a speck in front of them, still skipping merrily towards a large, dark red wall growing clearer by the second. It was obscured by a dim red fog, and it seemed to rise up for hundreds of feet, above the flat plain and into the bloody sky. The closer that they drew to it, the more intimidating it seemed.

"That's what we call a 'Nether fortress'," Will said boredly as he walked, kicking clods of dark dirt. "Or, rather, what the historians call it. The name doesn't matter to me."

"How high do you think it goes?" Matt asked, attempting to make casual talk to the cold swordsman.

"Higher than I care."

"Is it big?"

"I don't give a shit. Don't try to make small talk, just do your job so we can get home. I only came here because Ms. Bolton is here," Will answered curtly, which silenced Matt.

Cassandra had stopped at the entryway to the fortress, gazing up at the wall rising above her. When she heard the footsteps crunching on the dirt behind her, she turned around and began to bounce excitedly.

"It's so tall, Will! Do you think you could climb it!?" she asked him curiously, glancing back and forth from him to the wall.

"I don't think I could," he answered sheepishly, actually smiling.

"Nah, you're big and strong. You could probably climb all the way up to the top!" she encouraged him, and he smiled awkwardly again.

"Let's go see your pigmen. I'm sure they'll be delighted to have guests. I'll tell them that you're a nice person and I'm sure they'll love to have you," he told her, as she began to dance in place.

"Oh boy oh boy! I'll get to talk to them and perform their ritual dances and learn _so _much!" she giggled like a schoolgirl, already bounding into the fortress. Will turned back to talk to Matt once more.

"Do your thing, and then come find us," he told him.

"Where at?"

"Wherever the hell I'll be," Will shrugged, before turning around and disappearing back into the fortress. Kellan looked disappointed, and Matt felt like something was going to go wrong, but he entered the fortress anyway, stepping up onto the brick platform and feeling the heat spread throughout the soles of his shoes as he walked.

The fortress felt desolate. Apparently there were pigmen somewhere in the brick labyrinth, but Matt caught neither sight nor smell of any living thing besides himself and Kellan. The dark red bricks were hot to the touch; they didn't burn, but when Matt rested the flesh of his palm upon one he withdrew it quickly, feeling the warmth emanating through the bricks. He made himself get used to it, so that it felt slightly more comfortable, before pressing on.

"Rose said that it was built into the underground chambers of the fortress," Kellan reminded him offhandedly.

"Yeah. Well how are we supposed to find those, hmm?"

"I never said I knew!" he snapped into a defensive attitude. "I only told you what to look for. I'll keep an eye out too!"

"Alright, alright. No need to get pissy," Matt scoffed. "A staircase is our best bet. It'll take us down, at least."

Turns out there were multiple staircases within the entire complex. The first one they saw Matt wanted to go down, but Kellan wasn't so sure.

"Maybe it's not the right one?" he suggested plainly.

"Again, how do you know? You're just guessing!" Matt accused him.

"I...well you don't know any more than me! This could take us to where we want to go! We want to go _down_, right?"

Matt realized how aggressive he had sounded, and he quickly apologized as Kellan began to descend.

The pendant was once more looped around his neck, hanging there and looking quite harmless. Matt had felt a lot better off without that damned trinket on his person; finally, he would be able to smash it. He was praying that nothing would go wrong.

He followed Kellan down and they continued once more, searching for any sign of the coldforge down inside the fortress. It was even hotter down below, despite the fact that warm air rises; Matt wasn't sure why it was hotter beneath, besides the fact that it was less open.

That clicking suddenly returned. Maybe is was an indicator that he was drawing closer to the coldforge? As soon as he took a left turn around a corner, it began to click in the back of his head once more, irritating. Matt found himself boxing his own ear once to try to drive the sound out. He was hoping Kellan, who was distracted by a sudden wind rustling through the windows, wouldn't notice.

It began to grow louder, too.

And the whispers began to filter into his ears again. Something phantom took over Matt's feet and he began to walk down dark corridors without heed to where he was going, every other noise drowned out. He didn't hear the slap of his shoes against the hot brick, or Kellan's appeals as he was left behind. And suddenly Matt was running, faster than he ever knew he could, towards _something_. He was running down those corridors, all other purpose lost, until he reached the vast circular room.

He vaguely remembered traversing two or three staircases before finally reaching this. He did not remember coming to this, and he did not know what its purpose was, but he knew it had to be of some importance.

_Was this the final goal? Could this be it?_

He felt like he was back in control again, even though his mind was flooded with nothing but whispers of a dead language. He took one tentative step, and then another towards what looked like a large brick basin. It stood on a central platform, raised above the rest of the room, with what looked like a steaming anvil and a hammer made out of...was that _ice_?

The coldforge certainly lived up to its name. Matt didn't know what he had been expecting. Something, for sure, but this seemed too...strange. Tentatively, he made his way up onto the platform, towards the large basin and the strange anvil. The latter looked like it was made out of frozen stone; even several feet away, in the heat of the Nether, Matt could feel the icy chill emanating from the surface of the strange metal, and the hammer too had its own cold feeling to it, although not nearly as penetrative as that of the anvil.

He could hear footsteps down the corridor, and wondered if that was Kellan or something else. With the sounds in his head, he couldn't be sure. Carefully, ever so carefully, he wrapped his hand around the cold ice of the hammer, letting the chill seep into his flesh, and he raised it up, feeling rather light in his hand. The pendant came off rather easily. Matt was expecting it to give him some resistance, but it slipped off of his skin without issue, and he was able to place it upon the strange anvil. All that remained was to bring the hammer down, and he could finish it all.

Even as he brought it down upon the pendant, there was no resistance. It was just sitting there, beckoning him to finish it off. And so he did. No waiting, no more delaying, no dramatic moment. A simple swing, there was a sharp, ear splitting crack, and the fragile surface of the pearl cracked in two. Something came smoking out of it, something hot that fizzled violently upon the icy metal of the anvil, and suddenly Matt felt himself falling, hitting the ground hard, his vision swirling before him.

The fortress, the anvil, all of it became a sudden blur as some thick, chalky substance filled his mind and his vision. He distinctly heard the hammer break into shards, another violent crack, but he could see nothing other than the swirling, even as he felt himself fall and hit the ground.

Did the entire fortress shake and shudder, or was it just him? Purple effluvium again, but darker and far more malignant. It didn't swirl, it simply accrued to his vision and blinded him, and it continued to get darker and darker, blotting everything else out.

And then he saw the shape. Only vaguely, and momentarily, but it was there. The face of something reptilian, monstrous...a snake of sorts? It almost looked like a dragon, with jet black skin and such malevolent purple eyes as he had never seen before. Then something was shaking _him_, and the chalky substance cleared and he was returned to his own mind. And then he realized that Kellan was standing directly over him, and the fortress was falling apart.

VVVVV

Will felt embarrassed, for some reason; maybe it was because he was left out on the sidelines, away from the _engaging_ action of the pigman ritual dancing ceremony. Or maybe it was because of what the ceremony entailed. It was almost cringe-worthy to watch.

As the dancing wound to a close and a dark tea was being brewed, Will tried to get closer to Cassandra and bumped into one of the pigmen guards, who snarled brutally at him and moved him back. He was being kept close to Cassandra, but behind a line of sword-wielding bodyguards who were protecting their village elder.

So far the dancing had gone from the entire tribe (including Cassandra in makeshift warpaint) performing some sort of fearsome war dance in the main plaza, to the young Listener and the elder doing some sort of slow-motion tango while the village warriors beat upon the ground with the butts of spears. The single-foot hop contest had been almost as bad; however, the most surprising moment came when Cassandra and the elder both threw away their clothes and, completely naked, performed some sort of crazy breakdance in the plaza while the warriors chanted and encouraged them. That had been one of the last rituals; thankfully, the ceremony seemed to have settled down and the two were sitting down within the elder's sizeable hut, located on a massive fortress balcony above the rest of the village.

The elder seemed pleased with her performance and vigor, and was certainly willing to speak to her. Cassandra did not seem fazed at all; despite all of that, she was happy to finally be able to talk to the elder. As the tea was served, the two began to speak to one another, in words that Will did not understand at all. He felt left out in the cold; he wanted to get closer to her, but the bodyguards would not budge a bit.

He watched the two of them converse for several minutes, sharing the tea and talking like they were best friends. He couldn't help but notice Cassandra's face lighting up as she talked, gleefully sharing her experiences with the elder and listening to what he had to say. Will wanted to remind her that her task was to glean as much information as possible about the pigmen as she could, to figure out more about the army of them that had besieged Swampheart previously.

_She's having fun. No use in hurrying her along, let her enjoy this experience_.

He loved to see her smile. Her happiness warmed his heart, even if he wasn't the cause of that happiness. So long as she was enjoying herself, Will could stand by contentedly, waiting for their leavetaking.

Something felt off, though. For a moment, Will felt a shudder pass through his flesh, an outside influence enter his body. And just as suddenly, it was gone. He ignored it, but tried once more to push through the ring of pigmen to get closer to Cassandra. Once more the guard in front of him snarled, and this time it held its weapon up threateningly, snarling louder, drawing the attention of the others and even Cassandra.

Then another shudder, and Will noticed the pigman's eyes blanch white momentarily. They returned to their normal red hue instantly afterwards, but he had seen what happened there. It shook off the feeling as if nothing had happened, and returned to threatening Will. Cassandra had noticed something too, and she stood up, turning her back on the elder.

"Will? Is something amiss?" she asked pleasantly, setting her tea down. Will wasn't sure, but when the third shudder passed through him and the pigman's eyes turned white once more, they didn't change back. The ground began to shake immediately afterwards, as if there was an earthquake. The elder had been rising as the shudder overtook him, and suddenly he froze-they all froze-and Will saw their eyes turn a milky white, and they could not move. Each of them was paralyzed.

Then the ground roared, and Will was thrown against the back wall. He saw Cassandra stumble and fall, and for the first time in years he looked into those bright eyes and saw fear.

_She's never afraid. Did she see the pigmen's eyes too?_

As Will struggled to right himself, he heard a crash from behind him and realized that part of the fortress was collapsing. He feared for their balcony, but it held tight, and the shaking slowly ground to a halt. That's when the chaos began.

Cassandra had yet to rise when the pigmen, all of whom had been paralyzed before the quake, rose and began to tear each other to pieces. Swords flew out, spears were raised, and hideous shrieks rent the air as the creatures turned on one another violently.

Will had to act fast before something happened. Without a second thought for his own safety, he dashed forward, drawing his sword lithely from its leather scabbard and slicing it through the air, cutting gashes in two pigmen who had turned on him, their eyes white as eggs. He felt something hit his shoulder, whether it was the flat of a blade or a fist he did not know, but he shrugged it off and plummeted forward towards Cassandra, who looked thoroughly terrified. It took all of Will's strength to extend a hand, pick her up and deflect a golden blade at the same time.

He couldn't fight off all of the pigmen; three of them had their eyes on him but he maneuvered deftly through fighting pairs and hauled Cassandra with him, out of the tent and onto the balcony.

"Will, where are we-"

"Getting you out of here! We're leaving!" he declared, letting go of her to briefly use all of his might to drive his blade up through the stomach of one of the berserked pigmen, piercing leather and flesh in one thrust.

"Maybe this is just another ritual dance!"

"No fucking way," Will cursed, tearing his sword out. "I'm getting you out of here!"

"But...Will!"

He didn't listen to her, even though he saw the look in her eyes. She didn't understand what was going on; she felt like she was being torn away from the happiness that she had so recently obtained. She couldn't see through the mayhem. It hurt to see _her _hurt, but he had to get her to safety. _Something _was wrong.

He raced down the balcony, down through the village. The rage seemed to have consumed the other pigmen as well; they were tearing each other apart, each one concerned with another that he was slaughtering. One of them lunged at Will, but he cut it down with a swift stroke of the blade, and continued running, dragging Cassandra by her arm forcefully.

Will spotted the two other boys running for the entry gate, and was actually glad to see them for once. One of them, the Asian-American one, was being supported by the lankier kid, and the former's face was smeared with bright red blood.

"Did you do it?" Will asked as they came to the entrance of the fortress, the ground quaking once more.

"He did-"

"Then let's get the hell out of here!" Will shouted, desiring not to waste anymore time.

"Will! We can't leave them behind!" Cassandra pleaded, falling to her knees and refusing to budge. Will tugged so hard that he lost his grip on her, and nearly fell over onto the brick.

"We're going!" he told her, grabbing her by the arm again. But still, she refused to move.

"They're going to kill each other, can't you see!?" Cassandra shouted at him, her eyes tearing up.  
"And they'll kill us too if we go back!"

"I don't want them all to die, Will, _please_!" she begged, the tears now issuing forth. The sound of bricks collapsing roared from behind him, but he could still hear her. "I didn't come here just to see them die, I don't want them to die, _please_, _please_ don't let them, _please_ take me back! _WILL PLEASE, I'M BEGGING YOU_!"

Will did something he never thought he would ever do at that point.

He slapped Cassandra's cheek. Slapped it with the flat of his hand, sent her head spinning, and then gripped her by the chin fiercely, looking right into those eyes now brimming with wet tears.

"We're leaving."

She did not argue after that. She did not have the will to do so. The force went out of her limbs and she let herself be half-dragged, half-carried by Will, just like Matt.

They ran from the crumbling fortress, fleeing from whatever the cracking of the pendant had unleashed. Will saw the broken halves of the pendant still in Matt's limp hand, saw blood run down his chin and drip onto his shirt and chest. He ran, felt blood pounding in his head and behind his ears, ran the entire mile towards the portal and saw it, standing there, beckoning to him.

He ran, he ran and he jumped. They all did, straight towards the purple swirls. But...something was amiss.

Something was _wrong_.

VVVVV

The work was almost finished. It would be just another minute, no more than that, and the sim would be up and running again. At least that was a boon, of sorts, good news.

Carl Manneh had been up for hours, into the wee hours of the morning even, while the specialized repair team did its work. Finally, after suffering an agonizingly long wait, Carl was finally brought some good news: the switch was ready to be flipped.

The sim would be open again; respawn powers and administrator controls would not yet be returned, but at least the connections between the two worlds would be reestablished and any temps who wished to leave could safely depart and return home.

_Those who are still alive, at least. Who knows what kind of chaos has been wrought in there without our intervention_.

The press coverage had been nonstop the entire day; newscasters from dozens of networks had gathered outside of the Mojang offices, blocking the streets and attempting to force their way into the barricaded headquarters. Police investigators were taking care of the murder scenes, and morgue units had already removed the bodies of the slain. It felt like a nightmare pumped up on steroids, and not even Carl's favorite espresso blend could alleviate his worries. But it was time to turn the damned thing back on again, and begin damage control.

Carl gave the order as he sat in the control room and watched the car-sized machine begin to thrum with life again. It was a miracle in a metal alloy shell, a harbinger of both life and death, and once more he had to come to grips with its power and try to restrain it.

The time had come once more. He gave the command, and again the machine flipped back on. _MINECRAFT _was back online.


End file.
